"L  I  B  RA  R.Y 

OF  THL 
U  N  I  VLRS  ITY 
or  ILLINOIS 


B 

D548f 

1905 
V  Z 

^^^MOTb  STORAGE 


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THE  LIFE 

OF 


Phot  in  America .  •  ^ 


THE  LIFE 

OF 

CHARLES  DICKENS 


By  JOHN  FORSTER 


In  Two  Vols.— Vol.  II.,  1847-1870 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1905 


V.  2 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PACK 

Autograph  of  Charles  Dickens  (1837)   FlyUaf. 

Charles  Dickens,  set.  56.    From  the  last  photograph  taken  in  America 

in  1868.  Engraved  by  J.  C.  Armytage  .  .  .  .  .  Frontispiece. 
Seventeen  "fancies"  for  Mr.  Dombey.  Designed  by  H.  K.  Browne  .  29 
Twelve  more  similar  fancies.  The  design  of  the  same  artist  .  .  .  30 
Charles  Dickens  to  George  Cruikshank.    Facsimile  of  a  letter  written 

in  1838,  concerning  the  later  illustrations  to  Oliver  Twist  .  .  33-4 
Devonshire  Terrace.    From  a  drawing  by  Daniel  Maclise,  R.A.       .    .  119 

Tavistock  House  150 

Facsimile  of  plan  prepared  for  first  number  of  David  Copperfield  .  .  223 
Facsimile  of  plan  prepared  for  first  number  of  Little  Dorrit  .       .       .  224 

The  Porch  at  Gadshill  257 

The  Chalet  263 

House  and  Conservatory,  from  the  meadow  266 

The  Study  at  Gadshill  270 

Charles  Dickens,  aet.  47.    From  the  portrait  painted  for  the  author  in 

1859  by  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A.  Engraved  by  Robert  Graves,  A. R.A.  281 
Facsimile  from  the  last  page  of  Edwin  Drood^  written  on  the  8th  of 

June,  1870  456 

Facsimile  from  a  page  of  Oliver  Twisty  written  in  1837  ....  457 
The  Grave.    From  an  original  water-colour  drawing,  executed  for  this 

Work  by  S.  L.  Fildes.    Engraved  by  J.  Saddler      .  to  face  ^.  513 


'  If  a  Life  be  delayed  till  interest  and  envy  are  at  an  end,  we  may  hope  for  impartiality,  but 
*  must  expect  little  intelligence  ;  for  the  incidents  which  give  excellence  to  biography  ate  of  a 
'  volatile  and  evanescent  kind  '—Johnson  {Rambler,  66). 


'  I  cannot  conceive  a  more  perfect  mode  of  writing  any  man's  life,  than  not  only  relating 
•  all  the  most  important  events  of  it  in  their  order,  but  interweaving  what  he  privately  wrote, 
'  and  said.' — Boswell  {Li/e  of  Johnson). 


III. 

' .  .  .  .  This  Third  Volume  throws  a  new  light  and  character  to  me  over  the  Work  at 
'  large.  I  incline  to  consider  this  Biography  as  taking  rank,  in  essential  respects,  parallel  to 
'  Boswell  himself,  though  on  widely  different  grounds.  Boswell,  by  those  genial  abridgements 
'  and  vivid  face  to  face  pictures  of  J  ohnson's  thoughts,  conversational  ways  and  modes  of 
'  appearance  among  his  fellow-creatures,  has  given,  as  you  often  hear  me  say,  such  a  delinea- 
'  tion  of  a  man's  existence  as  was  never  given  by  another  man.  By  quite  different  resources, 
'  by  those  sparkling,  clear,  and  sunny  utterances  of  Dickens's  own  (bits  of  a»^<?-biography 

*  unrivalled  in  clearness  and  credibility)  which  were  at  your  disposal,  and  have  been  inter- 
'  calated  every  now  and  then,  you  have  given  to  every  intelligent  eye  the  power  of  looking 
'  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  Dickens's  mode  of  existing  in  this  world  ;  and,  I  say,  have  per- 
'  formed  a  feat  which,  except  in  Boswell,  the  unique,  I  know  not  where  to  parallel.  So  long  as 
'  Dickens  is  interesting  to  his  fellow  men,  here  will  be  seen,  face  to  face,  what  Dickens's 
'  manner  of  existing  was.  His  bright  and  joyful  sympathy  with  everything  around  him  ;  his 
'  steady  practicality,  withal ;  the  singularly  solid  business  talent  he  continually  had  ;  and, 

•  deeper  than  all,  if  one  has  the  eye  to  see  deep  enough,  dark,  fateful,  silent  elements,  tragical 
'  to  look  upon,  and  hiding,  amid  dazzling  radiances  as  of  the  sun,  the  elements  of  death  itself. 
'  Those  two  American  journeys  especially  transcend  in  tragic  interest,  to  a  thinking  reader, 
'most  things  one  has  seen  in  writing!' — Thomas  Carlvle  {Letter  to  the  Author,  i6 
February,  1874). 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 
AT  THE  SUMMIT. 

1847— 1852.  ^T.  35—40. 

Pages  i — 134. 


I.    Pages  3-22. 
Splendid  Strolling. 
1 847- 1 848. 


Birth  of  fifth  son 

PAGB 

3 

In  aid  of  Lei^h  Hunt    .       .  . 

4 

Proposed  plays  and  actors  , 

4 

Manager  and  his  troubles      .  . 

5 

Leigh  Hunt's  criticism 

6 

Apparition  of  Mrs,  Gamp     .  . 

7 

Mrs.  Gamp  with  the  strollers 

Q 
0 

Confidences  with  Mrs.  Harris 

9 

Mrs.  Gamp  descriptive 

10 

Personal  portraits .       .       .  . 

II 

Bobadil's  whiskers  . 

12 

Douglas  Jerrold  . 

13 

Strollers  sketched 

14 

Time  come  for  savings  . 

15 

Dropped  designs 

16 

Seaside  street -music 

17 

First  popular  edition  . 

18 

Meetings  at  Leeds  and  Glasgow 

19 

Jeffrey  and  Knowles  . 

.  20 

Scheme  to  benefit  Knowles  . 

21 

Merry  Wives  undertaken  . 

22 

Performances  and  result 

22 

11.    Pages  23-46. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

1 846- 1 848. 

Drift  of  the  tale . 

.  23 

Mistakes  of  critics  . 

23 

Characters  as  first  designed  . 

24 

'Stock  of  the  Soup  '  . 
Six  pages  too  much  . 
Chapter  written  and  rejected 
Dickens  and  illustrators 
Artist-fancies  for  Mr.  Dombey 
Silly  story  again  refuted 
A  masterpiece  of  writing 
Dickens  to  Cruikshank  (1838) 
Cruikshank  of  Dickens  (1872) 
Parallel  from  the  Past 
A  reading  of  second  number 
The  real  Mrs.  Pipchin 
First  thought  of  autobiography 
Jeffrey's  criticisms 
A  damper  to  the  spirits . 
After  Paul's  death 
Two  pages  too  little 
Edith's  first  destiny  . 
Changed  for  Jeffrey 
Supposed  originals 
Guessers  at  fault  . 

III.    Pages  46-72. 
Seaside  Holidays. 
1848-1851. 
Louis  Philippe  dethroned  . 
Citoyen  Dickens  at  Broadstairs 
Chinese  Junk  described 
Type  of  finality 
As  to  temperance  agitations 
Cruikshank's  satirical  method 
Contrast  of  Hogarth's 
Wisdom  of  the  great  painter  . 


PAGH 

25 
26 

27 
28 
29-30 
31 


VI                                         1  U/Ul'O  UJ 

On  designs  by  Leech  . 

54 

Excuses  for  the  rising  generation 

55 

Things  to  be  remembered  for 

56 

Pony-chaise  accident     .       .  . 

57 

Strenuous  idleness 

58 

At  Brighton  

59 

At  Broadstairs  .       .       .  . 

60 

A  letter  in  character      .       .  . 

61 

At  Bonchurch    .       .       .  . 

62 

The  Reverend  James  White  .  . 

62 

Talfourd  made  a  judge 

63 

Dinners  and  pic-nics     .       .  . 

64 

The  comedian  Regnier 

65 

A  startling  revelation    .       .  . 

66 

Effects  of  Bonchurch  climate 

67 

Other  side  of  the  picture 

68 

Xllness  of  Leech        •       •  • 

69 

Again  at  Broadstairs     .       .  . 

70 

The  Exhibition  year  . 

71 

Reading  and  criticising  . 

72 

IV.    Pages  73-83. 

Christmas  Books  closed  and 

Household  Words  begun. 

1848-1850. 

Friendly  plea  for  Mr.  Macrone 

.  73 

Last  Christmas  Book . 

.  74 

Teachings  of  the  little  tale  . 

75 

Respective  sales  of  novels  . 

.  76 

Pickwick  in  Russian 

.  77 

The  Periodical  taking  form 

.  78 

A  design  for  it  described 

.  79 

New  design  chosen  . 

.  80 

Selection  of  a  title  . 

.  81 

Appearance  of  first  number 

.  81 

Want  in  it  supplied 

.  82 

A  fancy  derived  from  childhood 

.  83 

V.    Pages  83-91. 

In  aid  of  Literature  and 

Art. 

1850-1852. 

Origin  of  Guild . 

.  83 

Efforts  to  establish  it 

.  84 

The  Duke  of  Devonshire  . 

.  85 

Edward  Lord  Lytton  . 

.  86 

Performance  of  comedy 

.  87 

Provincial  tour 

.  88 

Contents. 

Managerial  troubles  .  .  .89 
Dinner  at  Manchester    .       .    .  90 

VI.    Pages  91-119. 
Last  Years  in  Devonshire 


Terrace. 

1848-185 1. 
Sentiment  about  places  ,  .91 
At  eldest  sister's  sick-bed  .  .  92 
Book  to  be  written  in  first  person  93 
First  sees  Yarmouth  .  .  .  94 
Birth  of  sixth  son  .  .  -94 
At  a  loss  for  a  title  .  .  •  95 
*  Copperfield '  chosen  .  .  96 
Difficulties  at  beginning  .  .  97 
Festivities  and  friends  ,  .  98 
Dinner  to  Halevy  and  Scribe  .  99 
The  Duke  at  Vauxhall  .  100 

Carlyle  and  Thackeray  .  .  .  100 
Marryat  and  Milnes  .  .  .  lOl 
Lords  Nugent  and  Dudley  Stuart  102 
Kemble,  Harness,  and  Dyce  .  102 
Mazzini  and  Edinburgh  friends  .  103 
Artist-acquaintance  and  visitors  .  104 
Literature  and  art  in  the  city  .  105 
A  hint  for  London  citizens .  .106 
Letter  against  public  executions  .  107 
A  letter  from  Rockingham.  .  108 
Private  theatricals .  .  .  .  109 
Death  of  Francis  Jeffrey  .  .110 
Progress  of  work  .  .  .  .  iii 
A  run  to  Paris  .  .  .  .111 
A  third  daughter  bom  .  .  .112 
At  Great  Malvern  .  .  .112 
Death  of  John  Dickens  .  .  .113 
Tribute  by  his  son  .  .  .114 
Theatrical-fund  dinner  .  .  .114 
Death  of  little  daughter     .  .115 

Dora's  grave  116 

Advocating  sanitary  reform  .  116 
Lord  Shaftesbury  .  .  .  .  117 
A  Copperfield  banquet  .  .117 
Thoughts  of  a  new  book  .  .118 
Pencil-sketch  by  Maclise  .  .119 
VII.  Pages  120-134. 
David  Copperfield. 

1850-1853. 


Truth  of  Copperfield  to  its  author  120 


J.  LLU Lo  UJ 

Real  people  in  novels . 

.  121 

Earlier  and  later  method 

S        .      .  122 

Boythom  and  Skimpole 

• 

As  to  Leigh  Hunt . 

.      .  124 

Relatives  put  into  books 

.  125 

Scott  and  his  father 

.      .  126 

Dickens  and  his  father 

.  126 

Original  of  Micawber  . 

.     .  127 

Contents.  vii 

PASS 

Dickens  and  David    .       .  ,128 

Dangers  of  autobiography  .  .129 

Design  of  leading  character  .  130 

Why  books  continue     .  .    .  131 

Things  not  to  be  forgotten  ,  .132 

The  two  heroines  .       .  .    •  I33 

A  personal  experience       .  .134 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 
CONTINENT  REVISITED. 

1852 — 1856.       Mt.  40 — 44. 


Pages  135 — 218. 


1.    Pages  137-148. 

Publishing  agreements  .       .  . 

152 

Bleak  House  and  Hard 

Times. 

Self-changes      .       .       .  . 

153 

1851-1854. 

First  public  readings     .       .  . 

154 

Paid  readings  opposed 

155 

Contrast  of  Esther  and  David 

.  137 

Children's  theatricab . 

156 

Defects  and  merits  of  ^/<ffl>^ /i'bwj-^  138 

Actors  big  and  little      .       .  . 

157 

Constructive  art. 

.  139 

A  Drury-lane  performance . 

158 

Set-offs  and  successes  . 

.  140 

Mr.  Carlyle  and  Lord  Campbell . 

159 

Praise  with  a  grudge  . 

.  141 

Peter  Cunningham 

160 

The  contact  of  extremes 

.  142 

Outside  a  workhouse     .       .  . 

161 

Originals  of  Chancery  abuses 

.  143 

Truth  of  Gridley's  case  . 

•  144 

in.    Pages  162-176. 

A  story  for  his  periodical  . 

•  144 

Difficulties  of  weekly  parts 

.  145 

Switzerland  and  Italy. 

Mr.  Ruskin  on  Hard  Times 

.  146 

1853. 

Horse-riding  scenes 
A  strike  at  Preston  . 

.  147 
.  148 

Swiss  people  .... 

162 

An  old  friend       .       .       .  . 
Peschiere  and  its  owner 

163 
164 

n.    Pages  148-162. 

On  the  way  to  Naples  . 

165 

Home  Incidents. 

A  Greek  potentate 

166 

1853-1854-1855. 

Going  out  to  dinner       .       .  . 

167 

The  old  idle  Frenchman 

168 

Grave  at  Highgate 

•  149 

Changes  and  friends 

169 

Last  child  bom  . 

•  149 

The  puppets  at  Rome 

170 

Tavistock  House  . 

.  150 

Malaria  and  desolation  .       .  . 

171 

Deaths  of  friends 

•  151 

Again  in  Venice .... 

172 

vin 


Table  of  Contents:. 


Tintorettos 

Liking  for  the  Sardinians 
Neapolitans  in  exile  . 
Austrian  police  arrangements 


PAGH 

173 
174 
175 
176 


IV.    Pages  176-194. 
Three  Summers  at  Boulogn 
1853,  1854,  and  1856 
Visits  to  France . 
First  residence  in  Boulogne 
Villa  des  Moulineaux . 
Doll's  house  and  landlord 
Making  the  most  of  it 
Pride  in  the  Property  . 
Pictures  at  the  pig-market  . 
Change  of  villa  (1854)  . 
Visit  of  Prince  Albert 
Emperor,  Prince,  and  Dickens 
*' Like  boxing  " 
Conjuring  by  Dickens  . 
A  French  conjuror 
Conjuror's  compliment  and  vision 
Old  cottage  resumed  (1856) 
Last  of  the  Camp  . 
A  household  war 
Death  of  Gilbert  A'Becket 
Leaving  for  England  . 


176 
177 

178 
179 
180 
181 
182 

183 
184 
185 
186 
187 


190 
191 
192 

193 
194 


V.    Pages  194-218. 
Residence  in  Paris. 
1855-1856. 

How  Paris  life  passed        .  .  194 

Actors  and  dramas        .       .  .  195 

Frederic  Lemaitre     .       .  .196 

Ary  Scheffer  and  Daniel  Manin  .  197 

Unpopularity  of  war  .       .  .  198 

Acting  at  the  Fran9ais  .       .  .  199 

Paradise  Lost  at  the  Ambigu  .  200 

French  As  You  Like  Lt  .       .  .201 

Story  of  a  French  drama    .  .  202 

A  delightful  "tag"      .       .  .  203 

Auber  and  Queen  Victoria .  .  204 

Scribe  and  his  wife       .       .  .  205 

Viardot  and  Georges  Sand .  .  206 

Banquet  at  Girardin's    .       .  .  207 

All  about  it       ...  .  208 

Bourse  and  its  victims  .       .  .  209 

Entry  of  troops  from  Crimea  .  210 

Streets  on  New  Year's  Day  .  .211 

English  and  French  art     .  .212 

Emperor  and.  Edwin  Landseer  .  213 

Sitting  to  Ary  Scheffer       .  .  214 

Scheffer  as  to  the  likeness     .  .215 

A  duchess  murdered  .       .  .216 

Singular  scenes  described  .  .217 

What  became  of  the  actors    .  .218 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 
PUBLIC  READER. 


1856— 1867.       ^T.  44—55- 


Pages  219 — 325 

1.    Pages  221-237. 
Little  Dorrit,  and  a  Lazy  Tour 

1855-1857. 
Watts's  Rochester  charity  . 


Tablet  to  Dickens  in  Cathedral 
Nobody's  Fault  . 
Number-Plan  of  Copperfield  . 
Number- Plan  of  Dorrit 


.  221 
.  221 
.  222 
.  223 
.  224 


Circumlocution  Office 

Flora  and  Mr.  F  

Episodes  in  novels 
A  scene  of  boy-trials  . 
Christmas  theatricals 
Theatre-m  aking , 
Douglas  Jerrold's  death 
Exertions  and  result  . 
Lazy  Tour  projected 


225 
226 
227 
228 
229 
230 

231 

232 

233 


Table  of  Contents. 


IX 


FAGB 

Up  and  down  Carrick  Fell  .  234 
At  Wigton  and  Allonby  .  .235 
The  Yorkshire  landlady  .  .  236 
Doncaster  in  race  week  .       .    .  237 

II.    Pages  238-255. 

What  Happened  at  this  Time. 

1857-1858. 

^Disappointments  and  distastes  .  238 

What  we  seem  and  what  we  are  .  239 

Misgivings    ...       .  .  240 

A  defect  not  without  merit .  .  241 

Reply  to  a  remonstrance       .  .  242 

One  happiness  missed        .  .  243 

Confidences  .       .       .       .  •  244 

Rejoinder  to  a  reply  .       .  •  245 

What  the  world  cannot  give  .  .  246 

An  old  project  revived       .  .  247 

Shakespeare  on  acting  .       .  .  248 

Charities  of  the  very  poor  .  .  249 

Appeal  for  sick  children       .  .  250 

Reading  for  Child's  Hospital  .  251 

Proposal  for  paid  readings  .  .252 

First  rough  plan    .       .       .  .  253 

Separation  from  Mrs.  Dickens  .  254 

What  alone  concerned  the  public  255 

in.    Pages  255-270. 

Gadshill  Place, 

I 856-1 870. 

First  impression 
Negotiations  for  purchase 
View  of  Gadshill  Place 
Becomes  his  home 
Gadshill  a  century  ago 
Greeting  to  visitors 
Gradual  additions 
Gift  from  Mr.  Fechter  , 
The  chalet. 

Leaves  Tavistock  House 
Last  improvements  . 
Visits  of  friends 
Dickens's  dogs  . 
Linda  and  Mrs.  Bouncer 
Favourite  walks 
The  Study  and  chair 


•  255 

•  256 

•  257 
.  258 

•  259 
.  260 
.  261 
.  262 

•  263 
.  264 

•  265 
.  266 
.  267 
.  268 
.  269 
.  270 


IV.    Pages  270-281. 
First  Paid  Readings. 
1858-1859. 

PAQB 

Various  managements  .  .270 
One  day's  work  .  .  .  .  271 
Impressions  of  Dublin       .  .272 

Irish  girls  273 

Railway  ride  to  Belfast  .  .274 
Yorkshire  audiences  .  .  .275 
Brought  near  his  Fame  .  .  276 
Greeting  in  Manchester  .  .  276 
At  Edinburgh  .  .  .  .277 
Scotch  audiences  .  .  .  .  278 
When  most  successful  in  reading.  279 
At  public  meetings  .  .  .  280 
Landseer  on  Frith's  portrait       .  281 


V.    Pages  281-292. 

All  the  Year  Round  and 
commercial  traveller. 

1859-1861. 

Household  Words  discontinued  . 
Earliest  and  latest  publishers 
A  title  for  new  periodical  . 
Energetic  beginnings 
Successful  start  .       .       .  . 
At  Knebworth     .       .       .  . 
Commercial  Travellers'  schools  . 
A  Traveller  for  human  interests  . 
Personal  references  in  writing 
Birds  and  low  company 
An  incident  of  Doughty-street 
Offers  from  America  . 


UN- 


281 

282 
283 
284 
285 
286 
287 
288 
289 
290 
291 
292 


VI.    Pages  292-306. 

Second  Series  of  Readings. 

1861-1863. 

Daughter's  marriage  .       .  .  292 

Charles  Allston  Collins         .  .  293 

Sale  of  Tavistock  House    .  .  294 

Brother  Alfred's  death  .       .  .  294 

Various  readings        .  .  295 

New  subjects  for  readings     .  .  296 

Death  of  Mr.  Arthur  Smith  .  297 

Death  of  Mr.  Henry  Austin  .  .  297 

Eldest  son's  mairiage.       .  .  298 


X                        laote  of 

Lontents. 

PAQB 

FAOB 

At  L^antcrbury  <iiicl  JJover 

•  299 

I  njiriPQ  AA^f*nt wnrfVi  T~lill^"f»'c  rl^»atVi 

Alarming  scene  . 

•  300 

J-X^ALll   \J1     IVJiilL    X-«CCdl                     .  • 

1  TO 

-TLVA  VCiltUl  Co  111  O^L^LitXllVl  •  • 

•  301 

Staplehurst  accident 

711 

At  Torcju3,y       ,        .  , 

•  3*^2 

3*-^ 

X^CaLII  Ui  V^.   V^.       ClLUJl    •  • 

•  303 

Unfitness  for  the  labour . 

Writing  or  Reading  . 

•  304 

Last  meeting  with  Mrs.  Carlyle 

For  and  against  Australia 

•  305 

Grave  warnings 

lie 

X^AllCU.  CA*  UULCIlLciLC       •  • 

•  3*^^ 

In  Scotland  .       ,       .       .  . 

310 

Exertion  and  its  result 

317 

VII.    Pages  307-325. 

An  r^lrl  mnl^irlv 

^18 

Scene  at  Tynemouth  .  . 

Third  Series  of  Readings. 

1 864-1867. 

Yielding  to  temptation  . 

321 

Pressure  from  America 

122 

Death  of  Thackeray  . 

■  307 

Warnings  unheeded 

323 

Mother's  and  second  son's  deaths  308 

The  case  in  a  nutshell 

Interest  in  Mr.  Fechter 

•  309 

Decision  to  Go     .       .       .  . 

325 

BOOK  NINTH. 


A  UTHOR. 


1836— 1870.  ^T.  24—58. 

Pages  327—391. 


I.    Pages  329-350. 
Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 
1836-1870. 

See  before  you  oversee  .  .  329 
M.  Taine's  criticism  .  .  .  330 
A  popularity  explained  .  •  33 1 
National  excuses  for  Dickens  .  332 
Comparison  with  Balzac  .  .  333 
Anticipatory  reply  to  M.  Taine  334 
A  critic  in  Fortnightly  Review  335 
Blame  and  praise  to  be  reconciled  336 
Vain  critical  warnings  .  '337 
An  opinion  on  the  MicaM'bers  .  338 
Hallucinative  phenomena  .  .  339 
Claim  to  be  fairly  judged  .  .  340 
Dickens's  leading  quality  .  -341 
Dangers  incident  to  Humour  .  342 
Mastery  of  dialogue   .       .       .  343 


Character-drawing  .  .  .  344 
Fielding  and  Dickens  .  .  345 
Touching  of  extremes  .  .  .  345 
Why  the  creations  of  fiction  live  346 
Unpublished  note  of  Lord  Lytton  347 
Temptations  to  all  great  hu- 
mourists ....  348 
A  word  for  fanciful  description  .  349 

II.    Pages  350-355- 
The  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
1857-8-9. 

Origin  of  Tale      .  .    .  350 

Speciality  in  treatment  .  •  35^ 
Reply  to  objections  .  .  .  .  352 
Care  with  which  Dickens  worked  353 
An  American  critic    .       .       .  354 


Table  of  Contents, 


XI 


III.    Pages  355-361. 
Great  Expectations. 
1860-1861. 

Germ  of  the  story  . 
Another  boy-child  for  hero  . 
Unlikeness  in  likeness 
Masterly  drawing  of  character 
A  day  on  the  Thames 
Homely  and  shrewd  satire 
Incident  changed  for  Lord  Lyttou  36] 


PAGB 

355 
356 
357 
358 
359 
360 


As  originally  written 

IV.    Page  362. 
Christmas  Sketches. 
1862,  1863,  1864. 
Mrs.  Lirriper 

V.    Pages  363-368. 
Our  Mutual  Friend. 
1864-1865. 

First  notion 

Writing  numbers  in  advance  . 

Working  slowly 

Staplehurst  accident 

Effects  on  himself  and  his  novel 

First  and  Last  . 


36] 


.  362 


363 
364 
365 
366 

367 
368 


VI.    Pages  369-370. 
Dr.  Marigold's  Prescriptions. 
1865. 

A  cheap  Jack  .  .  .  .  369 
Minor  stories     .       .       .  .370 


VII.  Pages  370-386. 

Hints  for  Books  Written  and 
Unwritten. 

1855-1865. 

PAOB 

Book  of  MS.  Memoranda  .  .  370 

Fancies  put  into  books  .       .  .371 

Suggestions  worked  out     .  .  372 

Hints  for  last  completed  book  .  373 
First  thought  better  than  second  .  374 

Fancies  never  used       .       .  .  375 

Ideas  not  carried  out  .       .  .  376 

Domestic  subjects .       .       .  .  377 

Characters  of  women .       .  .  378 

Other  female  groups  .  •  •  379 
Uncle  Sam       ....  380 

Striking  thoughts  ,       .       .  .  381 

Subjects  not  accomplished  .  .  382 

Characters  laid  aside     .       .  .  383 

Titles  for  stories       .       ,  .  384 

Names  for  girls  and  boys      .  .  385 

An  undistinguished  crowd  .  .  386 

Mr.  Brobity's  snuff-box .       .  .  386 

VIII.  Pages  387-391. 
Closing  Word. 

1836-1870. 

Needless  classifications  .  .  387 
Purity  of  Dickens's  writings  .  .  388 
Substitute  for  alleged  deficiency  .  389 
Letters  from  America  .  .  390 
Companions  for  solitude       .  .391 


BOOK  TENTH. 
AMERICA  REVISITED. 

1867— 1868.  ^T.  55—56. 

Pages  393—435- 


I.    Pages  395-408. 

Changes  since  1842  . 

.  397 

November  and  December, 

1867. 

First  Boston  reading 

•  398 

1867. 

Scene  at  New  York  sales  . 

•  399 

First  New  York  reading 

.  400 

Warmth  of  the  greeting 

•  395 

A  fire  at  his  hotel 

.  401 

Old  and  new  friends 

•  396 

Local  and  general  politic* 

.  402 

xii  Table  of  Contents. 


PA&B 

Railway  and  police  . 

403 

Objections  to  coloured  people 

418 

As  to  newspapers  .       .       .  . 

404 

With  Sumner  at  Washington 

419 

Nothing  lasts  long 

/IOC 

PrfsiHfnf  T  inrr»ln'«  iKrccirw 

420 

Scene  of  a  murder  visited 

406 

Interview  with  President  Johnson 

421 

Illness  and  abstinence 

407 

Washington  audiences 

422 

Miseries  of  American  travel  .  . 

408 

Incident  before  a  reading      .  . 

423 

II.    Pages  409-435. 

Newhaven  and  Providence 

424 
425 
426 

Political  excitements 

January  to  April,  1868. 

Struggles  for  tickets  . 

1868. 

Sherry  to  *slop  round'  with  . 

427 

Speculators  and  public 

409 

Final  impression  of  Niagara 

428 

The  labour  and  the  gain 

410 

Letter  to  Mr.  Ouvry     .       ,  . 

429 

A  scene  at  Brooklyn  . 

411 

*  Getting  along '  through  water  . 

430 

*  Trifling '  journeys 

412 

Again  attacked  by  lameness  ,  . 

431 

*  Looking  up  the  judge  ' 

413 

All  but  used  up        .       .  . 

432 

Improved  social  ways  . 

414 

Last  Boston  readings 

433 

Result  of  thirty-four  readings 

415 

New  York  farewells  . 

434 

Baltimore  and  Washington  . 

416 

The  receipts  throughout       .  . 

434 

Success  in  Philadelphia .       .  . 

417 

The  Adieu       .       .       .  . 

435 

BOOK  ELEVENTH. 
SUMMING  UP. 

1868— 1870.  ^T.  56—58. 

Pages  437—498. 


I.    Pages  439-450- 
Last  Readings. 
1868. 

Health  apparently  improved  .  439 

Expenses  and  gains  in  America  .  440 

Noticeable  changes  in  Dickens  .  441 

The  Oliver  Twist  reading  .  .  442 

Death  of  Frederick  Dickens  .  .  443 

Another  attack  of  illness   .  .  444 

A  doctor's  difference     .       .  .  445 

At  Emerson  Tennent's  funeral  .  446 

The  illness  at  Preston    .       .  .  447 

Brought  to  London  .       .  .  448 


449 
450 


Sir  Thomas  Watson  consulted 
His  note  of  the  case  . 

IL    Pages  451-463. 
Last  Book. 
I 869- I 870. 
The  agreement  for  Edwin  Drood  451 
Story  as  planned  in  his  mind  .    .  452 
Merits  of  the  fragment       .       .  453 
Comparison  of  early  andlateMSS.  454 
Discovery  of  an  unpublished  scene  455 
Last  page  of  Drood  in  fac-simile  456 
Page  of  Oliver  Twist  in  fac-simile  457 
Delightful  specimen  of  Dickens  .  458 
Unpublished  scene  for  Drood  459-463 


Table  of 

III.    Pages  463-498. 
Personal  Characteristics. 
1836-1870. 

PAGE 

Dickens  not  a  bookish  man  .  .  463 
Books  and  their  critics  .  .  464 
Fault  not  consciously  committed  .  465 
Lord  Russell  on  Dickens  .  .  465 
Undergoing  popularity  .  .  466 
Letter  to  youngest  son  .  .  .  467 
As  to  prayer  ....  468 
Religious  views  .  .  .  .  469 
Objection  to  posthumous  honours  470 
Vanity  of  human  hopes  .  •  47 1 
Editorship  of  his  weekly  serials  .  472 
"Work  for  his  contributors  .  .  473 
Editorial  troubles  and  pleasures  .  474 
Help  to  younger  novelists  .  .  475 
Adelaide  Procter's  poetry  .  .  476 
The  effects  of  periodical  writing .  477 
Political  opinions      .       .       .  478 


Contents.  xiii 

Reforms  he  thought  necessary    .  479 

People  governing  and  governed  .  480 

Alleged  offers  from  her  Majesty  .  481 

Silly  rigmarole      .       .       .    .  482 

The  Queen  sees  him  act  (1857)  .  483 

Desires  to  hear  him  read  (1858)  .  483 

Interview  at  the  Palace  (1870)    .  484 

What  passed  at  the  interview     .  485 

A  hope  at  the  close  of  life  .       .  486 

Games  in  Gadshill  meadow  .  .  487 
Another  boy  picture  of  him       .  488 

Habits  of  life  everywhere   .       .  489 

Street  walks  and  London  haunts  491 

The  first  attack  of  lameness       .  492 

Why  right  things  to  be  done  .    .  493 

Silent  heroisms  ....  494 

At  social  meetings        .       .    .  494 

Puns  and  pleasantries        .       .  495 

Unlucky  hits       .       .       .    .  496 

Ghost  stories  ....  497 
Tribute  from  the  Master  of  Balliol  498 


BOOK  TWELFTH. 
THE  CLOSE. 

1870.     ^T.  58. 

Pages  499 — 514. 


I.    Pages  501-512. 

A  noteworthy  incident 

•  509 

Last  Days. 

Final  days  at  Gadshill  . 
Wednesday  the  8th  of  June 

.  510 
•  511 

^T.  1869-1870. 

Last  piece  of  writing 

•  511 

Last  summer  and  autumn  . 

.  501 

His  son  Henry's  scholarship  . 

•  502 

II.    Pages  512-514. 

Twelve  more  readings 

■  503 

Medical  attendance  at  them 

•  504 

Westminster  Abbey. 

Excitement  incident  to  them  . 

•  504 

1870. 

The  Farewell  . 

•  505 

Last  public  appearances 

.  506 

The  8th  and  9th  of  June  . 

.  512 

At  Royal  Academy  dinner  . 

.  507 

The  general  grief. 

•  512 

Eulogy  of  Daniel  Maclise 

.  508 

The  burial 

•  513 

Return  of  illness 

.  508 

Unbidden  mourners 

•  513 

Our  last  meeting  . 

. 

xiv 


Table  of  Contents, 


APPENDIX. 

I.  The  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens  published  during  the 

Period  comprised  in  this  Second  Volume       .      .  .515 

II.  The  Will  of  Charles  Dickens  522 

INDEX  527 


BOOK  SIXTH. 


AT  THE  SUMMIT. 
1847— 1852.      ^T.  35—40. 

I.  Splendid  Strolling. 

II.  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

III,  Seaside  Holidays. 

IV,  Christmas  Books  Closed  and  Household 

Words  Begun. 

V,  In  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art. 

VI.  Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 

VII,  David  Copperfield. 


vol.  II. 


B 


THE  LIFE  OF 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I. 

SPLENDID  STROLLING. 
1847—1852. 

Devonshire  Terrace  remaining  still  in  possession  of  Sir  londom 
James  Duke,  a  house  was  taken  in  Chester-place,  Regent's-park,  — 
where,  on  the  i8th  of  April,  Dickens's  fifth  son,  to  whom  he  gave  the 
name  of  Sydney  Smith  Haldimand,  was  born.*    Exactly  a  month  Birth  of 

fifth  son 

before,  he  had  attended  the  funeral  at  Highgate  of  his  publisher 
Mr.  William  Hall,  his  old  regard  for  whom  had  survived  the 
recent  temporary  cloud,  and  with  whom  he  had  the  association 
as  well  of  his  first  success,  as  of  much  kindly  intercourse  not  for- 


*  He  entered  the  Royal  Navy,  and 
survived  his  father  only  a  year  and 
eleven  months.  He  was  a  Lieutenant, 
at  the  time  of  his  death  from  a  sharp 
attack  of  bronchitis  ;  being  then  on 
board  the  P.  and  O.  steamer  '  Malta,' 
invalided  from  his  ship  the  'Topaze,' 
and  on  his  way  home.  He  was  buried 
at  sea  on  the  2nd  of  May,  1872.  Poor 
fellow !  He  was  the  smallest  in  size 
of  all  the  children,  in  his  manhood 
reaching  only  to  a  little  over  five  feet ; 
and  throughout  his  childhood  was 
never  called  by  any  other  name  than 


the  'Ocean  Spectre,' from  a  strange  Death  of 
little  weird  yet  most  attractive  look  in  g^^^J^^^y 
his  large  wondering  eyes,  very  happily  Dickens, 
caught  in  a  sketch  in  oils  by  the  good 
P>ank  Stone,  done  at  Bonchurch  in 
September,  1849,  and  remaining  in  his 
aunt's  possession.  '  Stone  has  painted,' 
Dickens  then  wrote  to  me,  '  the  Ocean 

*  Spectre,  and  made   a  very  pretty 

*  little  picture  of  him.'  It  was  a 
strange  chance  that  led  his  father  to 
invent  this  playful  name  for  one  whom 
the  ocean  did  indeed  take  to  itself  at 
last. 

B  2 


4 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI- 


London  :  gotten  at  this  sad  time.    Of  the  summer  months  that  followed,  the 
1847. 

■  —  greater  part  was  passed  by  him  at  Brighton  or  Broadstairs ;  and 

the  chief  employment  of  his  leisure,  in  the  intervals  of  Dombey, 
was  the  management  of  an  enterprise  originating  in  the  success  of 
our  private  play,  of  which  the  design  was  to  benefit  a  great  man 
of  letters. 

Theatrical  The  purposc  and  name  had  hardly  been  announced,  when, 
Leigh        with  the  statesmanlike  attention  to  literature  and  its  followers  for 

Hunt. 

which  Lord  John  Russell  has  been  eccentric  among  English 
politicians,  a  civil-list  pension  of  two  hundred  a  year  was  granted 
to  Leigh  Hunt ;  but  though  this  modified  our  plan  so  far  as  to 
strike  out  of  it  performances  meant  to  be  given  in  London,  so 
much  was  still  thought  necessary  as  might  clear  off  past  liabilities, 
and  enable  a  delightful  writer  better  to  enjoy  the  easier  future  that 
had  at  last  been  opened  to  him.  Reserving  therefore  anything 
realized  beyond  a  certain  sum  for  a  dramatic  author  of  merit. 
Proposed  Mr.  John  Poole,  to  whom  help  had  become  also  important,  it 
ances.  was  proposcd  to  give,  on  Leigh  Hunt's  behalf,  two  representa- 
tions of  Ben  Jonson's  comedy,  one  at  Manchester  and  the  other 
at  Liverpool,  to  be  varied  by  different  farces  in  each  place  ;  and 
with  a  prologue  of  Talfourd's  which  Dickens  was  to  deliver  in 
Manchester,  while  a  similar  address  by  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 
was  to  be  spoken  by  me  in  Liverpool.  Among  the  artists  and 
Leading  writcrs  associatcd  in  the  scheme  were  Mr.  Frank  Stone,  Mr.  Au- 
^^^"'^  gustus  Egg,  Mr.  John  Leech,  and  Mr.  George  Gruik shank  j 
Mr.  Douglas  Jerrold,  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  Dudley  Costello,  and 
Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes  ;  the  general  management  and  supreme 
control  being  given  to  Dickens. 

Leading  men  in  both  cities  contributed  largely  to  the  design, 
and  my  friend  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland  of  Manchester  has  lately 
sent  me  some  letters  not  more  characteristic  of  the  energy  of 
Dickens  in  regard  to  it  than  of  the  eagerness  of  everyone  ad- 
dressed to  give  what  help  they  could.  Making  personal  mention 
The  of  his  fellow-sharers  in  the  enterprise  he  describes  the  troop,  in 

one  of  those  letters,  as  '  the  most  easily  governable  company  of 
*  actors  on  earth ;  *  and  to  this  he  had  doubtless  brought  them, 
but  not  very  easily.    One  or  two  of  his  managerial  troubles  at 


splendid  Strolling. 


5 


rehearsals  remain  on  record  in  letters  to  myself,  and  may  give  Londoh: 

1847. 

amusement  still.    Comedy  and  farces  are  referred  to  mdiscrimi — ■  — 


nately,  but  the  farces  were  the  most  recurring  plague.    *  Good 

*  Heaven  !    I  find  that  A.  hasn't  twelve  words,  and  I  am  in 

*  hourly  expectation  of  rebellion  ! ' — *  You  were  right  about  the 

*  green  baize,  that  it  would  certainly  muffle  the  voices ;  and  some 

*  of  our  actors,  by  Jove,  haven't  too  much  of  that  commodity  at 

*  the  best.' — *  B.  shocked  me  so  much  the  other  night  by  a  rest- 

*  less,  stupid  movement  of  his  hands  in  his  first  scene  with  you,  ^h°ears?<s''* 

*  that  I  took  a  turn  of  an  hour  with  him  yesterday  morning,  and  I 

*  hope  quieted  his  nerves  a  little.' — *  I  made  a  desperate  effort  to 

*  get  C.  to  give  up  his  part.    Yet  in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  he 

*  gives  me  I  am  sorry  for  him,  he  is  so  evidently  hurt  by  his 
'  own  sense  of  not  doing  well.    He  clutched  the  part,  however, 

*  tenaciously ;  and  three  weary  times  we  dragged  through  it  last 

*  night.' — '  That  infernal  E.  forgets  everything.' — *  I  plainly  see 

*  that  F.  when  nervous,  which  he  is  sure  to  be,  loses  his  memory. 

*  Moreover  his  asides  are  inaudible,  even  at  Miss  Kelly's ;  and 

*  as  regularly  as  I  stop  him  to  say  them  again,  he  exclaims  (with  a 

*  face  of  agony)  that  "  he'll  speak  loud  on  the  night,"  as  if  any- 

*  body  ever  did  without  doing  it  always  ! ' — '  G.  not  born  for  it  at 

*  all,  and  too  innately  conceited,  I  much  fear,  to  do  anything 

*  well.    I  thought  him  better  last  night,  but  I  would  as  soon  Managerial 

exertion 

*  laugh  at  a  kitchen  poker.' — *  Fancy  H,  ten  days  after  the  castmg  and  its 

*  of  that  farce,  wanting  F.'s  part  therein !    Having  himself  an 

*  excellent  old  man  in  it  already,  and  a  quite  admirable  part  in 

*  the  other  farce.'  From  which  it  will  appear  that  my  friend's 
office  was  not  a  sinecure,  and  that  he  was  not,  as  few  amateur- 
managers  have  ever  been,  without  the  experiences  of  Peter 
Quince.  Fewer  still,  I  suspect,  have  fought  through  them  with 
such  perfect  success,  for  the  company  turned  out  at  last  would 
have  done  credit  to  any  enterprise.  They  deserved  the  term 
applied  to  them  by  Maclise,  who  had  invented  it  first  for 
Macready,  on  his  being  driven  to  *  star '  in  the  provinces  when 
his  managements  in   London   closed.     They  were  *  splendid 

*  strollers.'  * 

*  J  think  it  right  to  place  on  record  here  Leigh  Hunt's  own  allusion  to  the 


6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


Man- 
chester 

AND 
LiVEKI'OOL  ; 

1847. 


Leigh 
Hunt's 
criticism. 


On  Monday  the  26th  July  we  played  at  Manchester,  and  on 


Lord 

Lytton's 

prologue. 


incident  {Autobiography,  p.  432), 
though  it  will  be  thought  to  have  too 
favourable  a  tone,  and  it  might  be 
wished  that  other  names  had  also 
found  mention  in  it.  But  I  have  al- 
ready  {ante,  435)  stated  quite  unaf- 
fectedly my  own  opinion  of  the  very 
modest  pretensions  of  the  whole  affair, 
and  these  kind  words  of  Hunt  may 
stand    valeant    quantum.      *  Simul- 

*  taneous  with  the  latest  movement 

*  about  the  pension  was  one  on  the 

*  part  of  my  admirable  friend  Dickens 

*  and  other  distinguished  men,  Forsters 

*  and  Jerrolds,  who,  combining  kindly 

*  puipose  with  an  amateur  inclination 

*  for  the  stage,  had  condescended  to 

*  show  to  the  public  what  excellent 

*  actors  they  could  have  been,  had 

*  they  so  pleased,  —  what  excellent 

*  actors,  indeed,  some  of  them  were. 
* .  .  .  They  proposed  ...  a  benefit 

*  for  myself,  .  .  .  and  the  piece  per- 

*  formed  on  the  occasion  was  Ben 

*  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

*  ...  If  anything  had  been  needed 

*  to  show  how  men  of  letters  include 

*  actors,  on  the  common  principle  of 
'  the  greater  including  the  less,  these 

*  gentlemen  would  have  furnished  it. 

*  Mr.  Dickens's  Bobadil  had  a  spirit  in 

*  it  of  intellectual  apprehension  be- 

*  yond  anything  the  existing  stage  has 
'  shown  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Forster  de- 

*  livered  the  verses  of  Ben  Jonson 

*  with  a  musical  flow  and  a  sense  of 

*  their  grace  and  beauty  unknown,  I 

*  believe,  to  the  recitation  of  actors  at 

*  present.  At  least  I  have  never  heard 

*  anything    like  it    since  Edmund 

*  Kean's.'  .  .  .  To  this  may  be  added 
some  lines  from  Lord  Lytton's  pro- 
logue spoken  at  Liverpool,  of  which  I 
have  not  been  able  to  find  a  copy,  if 
indeed  it  was  printed  at  the  time  ;  but 
the  verses  come  so  suddenly  and  com- 
pletely back  to  me,  as  I  am  writing 
after  twenty-five  years,  that  in  a  small 
way  they  recall  a  more  interesting 


effort  of  memory  told  me  once  by 
Macready.  On  a  Christmas  night  at 
Drury  Lane  there  came  a  necessity  to 
put  up  the  Gamester,  which  he  had  not 
played  since  he  was  a  youth  in  his 
father's  theatre  thirty  years  before. 
He  went  to  rehearsal  shrinking  from 
the  long  and  heavy  study  he  should 
have  to  undergo,  when,  with  the 
utterance  of  the  opening  sentence,  the 
entire  words  of  the  part  came  back, 
including  even  a  letter  which  Beverley 
has  to  read,  and  which  it  is  the  pro- 
perty-man's business  to  supply.  My 
lines  come  back  as  unexpectedly  ;  but 
with  pleasanter  music  than  any  in  Mr. 
Moore's  dreary  tragedy,  as  a  few  will 
show, 

'  Mild  amid  foes,  within  a  prison  free, 

*  He  comes  .  .  our  grey-hair'd  bard  of 

Rimini  ! 

*  Comes  with  the  pomp  of  memories 

in  his  train, 

*  Pathos  and  wit,  sweet  pleasure  and 

sweet  pain  ! 

*  Comes  with  familiar  smile  and  cor- 

dial tone, 

*  Our  hearths'  wise  cheerer  ! — Let  us 

cheer  his  own ! 

*  Song  links  her  children  with  a  golden 

thread, 

*  To  aid  the  living  bard  strides  forth 

the  dead. 

*  Hark  the  frank  music  ot  the  elder 

age— 

*  Ben  Jonson's   giant  tread  sounds 

ringing  up  the  stage  ! 

*  Hail !  the  large  shapes  our  fathers 

loved  !  again 

*  Wellbred's  light  ease,  and  Kitely's 

jealous  pain. 

*  Cob  shall  have  sense,  and  Stephen 

be  polite, 

*  Brainworm  shall  preach,  and  Boba- 

dil shall  fight — 

*  Each,  here,  a  merit  not  his  own 

shall  find, 

*  And  Every  Man  the  Humour  to  be 

kind.' 


splendid  Strolling. 


7 


Wednesday  the  28th  at  Liverpool ;  the  comedy  being  followed  on  ^^^^^''^ 
the  first  night  by  A  Good  Nighfs  Rest  and  Turning  the  Tables^ 
and  on  the  second  by  Comfortable  Lodgings,  or  Far  is  in  1750; 
and  the  receipts  being,  on  the  first  night  ^440  12^,  and  on  the  Receipts 
second,;^ 463  Zs.  6d.    But  though  the  married  members  of  the  penses. 
company  who  took  their  wives  defrayed  that  part  of  the  cost,  and 
every  one  who  acted  paid  three  pounds  ten  to  the  benefit-fund 
for  his  hotel  charges,  the  expenses  were  necessarily  so  great  that 
the  profit  was  reduced  to  foui  hundred  guineas,  and,  handsomely 
as  this  realised  the  design,  expectations  had  been  raised  to  five 
hundred.    There  was  just  that  shade  of  disappointment,  there- 
fore, when,  shortly  after  we  came  back  and  Dickens  had  returned 
to  Broadstairs,  I  was  startled  by  a  letter  from  him.    On  the  3rd 
of  August  he  had  written  :  *  All  well.    Children '  (who  had  been 
going  through  whooping  cough)  *  immensely  improved.  Business 

*  arising  out  of  the  late  blaze  of  triumph,  worse  than  ever.'  Then 

came  what  startled  me,  the  very  next  day.  As  if  his  business  Apparition 
were  not  enough,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  add  the  Gamp." 
much  longed-for  hundred  pounds  to  the  benefit-fund  by  a  little 
jeu  d'esprit  in  form  of  a  history  of  the  trip,  to  be  pubhshed  with 
illustrations  from  the  artists  ;  and  his  notion  was  to  write  it  in  the 
character  of  Mrs.  Gamp.  It  was  to  be,  in  the  phraseology  of  that 
notorious  woman,  a  new  *  Piljians  Projiss  ; '  and  was  to  bear  upon 
the  title  page  its  description  as  an  Account  of  a  late  Expedition 
into  the  North,  for  an  Amateur  Theatrical  Benefit,  written  by 
Mrs.  Gamp  (who  was  an  eye-witness),  Inscribed  to  Mrs.  Harris, 
Edited  by  Charles  Dickens,  and  pubHshed,  with  illustrations  on 
wood  by  so  and  so,  in  aid  of  the  Benefit-fund.    *  What  do  you  Fancy  for 

*  think  of  this  idea  for  it  ?    The  argument  would  be,  that  Mrs.  d'esprit. 

*  Gamp,  being  on  the  eve  of  an  excursion  to  Margate  as  a  relief 
'  from  her  professional  fatigues,  comes  to  the  knowledge  of  the 

*  intended  excursion  of  our  party  ;  hears  that  several  of  the  ladies 

*  concerned  are  in  an  interesting  situation ;  and  decides  to  ac- 

*  company  the  party  unbeknown,  in  a  second-class  carriage — "  in 

*  "  case."    There,  she  finds  a  gentleman  from  the  Strand  in  a 

*  checked  suit,  who  is  going  down  with  the  wigs ' — the  theatrical 
hairdresser  employed  on  these   occasions,   Mr.   Wilson,  had 


8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  Vl. 


Broad-    cccentric  Doints  of  character  that  were  a  fund  of  infinite  mirth  to 

STAIRS : 

^^47-  Dickens — *  and  to  his  poHteness  Mrs.  Gamp  is  indebted  for  much 
atdieplay'  '  support  and   countcnance   during  the  excursion.     She  will 

*  describe  the  whole  thing  in  her  own  manner  :  sitting,  in  each 

*  place  of  performance,  in  the  orchestra,  next  the  gentleman  who 

*  plays  the  kettle-drums.    She  gives  her  critical  opinion  of  Ben 

*  Jonson  as  a  literary  character,  and  refers  to  the  different 
'  members  of  the  party,  in  the  course  of  her  description  of  the 
'  trip  :  having  always  an  invincible  animosity  towards  Jerrold,  for 

*  Caudle  reasons.     She  addresses   herself,  generally,   to  Mrs. 

*  Harris,  to  whom  the  book  is  dedicated, — but  is  discursive. 
'  Amount  of  matter,  half  a  sheet  of  Dombey :  may  be  a  page  or  so 

*  more,  but  not  less.'  Alas  !  it  never  arrived  at  even  that  small 
size,  but  perished  prematurely,  as  I  feared  it  would,  from  failure 
of  the  artists  to  furnish  needful  nourishment.    Of  course  it  could 

uulure. 

not  live  alone.  Without  suitable  illustration  it  must  have  lost  its 
point  and  pleasantry.    *  Mac  will  make  a  little  garland  of  the 

*  ladies  for  the  title-page.    Egg  and  Stone  will  themselves  origi- 

*  nate  something  fanciful,  and  I  will  settle  with  Cniikshank  and 

*  Leech.    I  have  no  doubt  the  little  thing  will  be  droll  and 
Jnfinished    *  attractive.'  So  it  certainly  would  have  been,  if  the  Thanes  of  art 

lancy. 

had  not  fallen  from  him ;  but  on  their  desertion  it  had  to  be 
abandoned  after  the  first  few  pages  were  written.  They  were 
placed  at  my  disposal  then;  and,  though  the  little  jest  has  lost 
much  of  its  flavour  now,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  omit  them 
here.  There  are  so  many  friends  of  Mrs.  Gamp  who  will  rejoice 
at  this  unexpected  visit  from  her  1 

•  I.    MRS.  GAMP'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HER  CONNEXION  WITH 
THIS  AFFAIR. 

Mrs.  Gamp  *  Which  Mrs.  Harris's  own  words  to  me,  was  these :  "  Sairey 
strollers.      <  "  Gamp,"  she  says,  "  why  not  go  to  Margate  ?    Srimps,"  says 

*  that  dear  creetur,  "  is  to  your  liking,  Sairey ;  why  not  go  to 

*  "  Margate  for  a  week,  bring  your  constitootion  up  with  srimps, 

*  "  and  come  back  to  them  loving  arts  as  knows  and  wallies  of 

*  "you,  blooming?    Sairey,"  Mrs.  Harris  says,  "you  are  but 

*  "poorly.    Don't  denige  it,  Mrs.  Gamp,  for  books  is  in  your 


§  I.J  splendid  Strolling.  9 

*  "looks.    You  must  have  rest.    Your  mind,"  she  says,  "is  too  Broad- 

STAIRS : 

*  "  strong  for  you ;  it  gets  you  down  and  treads  upon  you,  Sairey.  1847. 

*  "  It  is  useless  to  disguige  the  fact — the  blade  is  a  wearing  out 

*  "the  sheets."  " Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says  to  her,  "  I  could  not  under- 
'  "  take  to  say,  and  I  will  not  deceive  you  ma'am,  that  I  am  the 

*  "  woman  I  could  wish  to  be.    The  time  of  worrit  as  I  had  with  Confidences 

with  Mrs. 

*  "  Mrs.  Colliber,  the  baker's  lady,  which  was  so  bad  in  her  mind  Harris. 

*  "  with  her  first,  that  she  would  not  so  much  as  look  at  bottled 

*  "  stout,  and  kept  to  gruel  through  the  month,  has  agued  me, 

*  "  Mrs.  Harria.  But  ma'am,"  I  says  to  her,  "  talk  not  of  Margate, 
'  "for  if  I  do  go  anywheres,  it  is  elsewheres  and  not  there." 

*  "Sairey,"  says  Mrs.  Harris,  solemn,  "whence  this  mystery?  If 
^  "I  have  ever  deceived  the  hardest-working,  soberest,  and  best 

*  "  of  women,  which  her  name  is  well  beknown  is  S.  Gamp  Mid- 

*  "wife  Kingsgate  Street  High  Holborn,  mention  it.    If  not," 

*  says  Mrs.  Harris,  with  the  tears  a  standing  in  her  eyes,  "  reweal 

*  "  your  intentions."    "  Yes,  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says,  "  I  will.  Well 

*  "  I  knows  you  Mrs.  Harris  ;  well  you  knows  me ;  well  we  both 

*  "  knows  wot  the  characters  of  one  another  is.    Mrs.  Harris 

*  "then,"  I  says,  "I  have  heerd  as  there  is  a  expedition  going 

*  "down  to  Manjestir  and  Liverspool,  a  play-acting.    If  I  goes 

*  "anywheres  for  change,  it  is  along  with  that."    Mrs.  Harris 

*  clasps  her  hands,  and  drops  into  a  chair,  as  if  her  time  was 

*  come — which  I  know'd  it  couldn't  be,  by  rights,  for  six  weeks 

'  odd.    "  And  have  I  lived  to  hear,"  she  says,  "  of  Sairey  Gamp,  Alarm  of 

*  "  as  always  kept  hersef  respectable,  in  company  with  play-  Harris. 

*  "  actors  ! "    "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says  to  her,  "  be  not  alarmed — 

*  "not  reg'lar  play-actors  —  hammertoors."     "Thank  Evans!" 

*  says  Mrs.  Harris,  and  bustiges  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

'  When  the  sweet  creetur  had  compoged  hersef  (which  a  sip  of 
'  brandy  and  water  warm,  and  sugared  pleasant,  with  a  little 

*  nutmeg  did  it),  I  proceeds  in  these  words.    "  Mrs.  Harris,  I 

*  "am  told  as  these  Hammertoors  are  litter'ry  and  artistickle." 

*  "  Sairey,"  says  that  best  of  wimmin,  with  a  shiver  and  a  slight 

*  relasp,  "  go  on,  it  might  be  worse."    "  I  likewise  hears,"  I  says 

*  to  her,  "  that  they're  agoin  play-acting,  for  the  benefit  of  two  Leigh  Hunt 

and  Poole. 

*  "  Utter  ry  men ;  one  as  has  had  his  wrongs  a  long  time  ago,  and 


lO 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  Vl. 


'  "  has  got  his  rights  at  last,  and  one  as  has  made  a  many  people 
'  "  merry  in  his  time,  but  is  very  dull  and  sick  and  lonely  his  own 

*  "  sef,  indeed."    "  Sairey,"  says  Mrs.  Harris,  "  you're  an  Inglish 

*  "  woman,  and  that's  no  business  of  you'rn." 
'  *'  No,  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says,  "  that's  very  true ;  I  hope  I  knows 

*  "  my  dooty  and  my  country.    But,"  I  says,  "  I  am  informed  as 

*  *'  there  is  Ladies  in  this  party,  and  that  half  a  dozen  of  'em,  if 

*  "not  more,  is  in  various  stages  of  a  interesting  state.  Mrs. 

*  **  Harris,  you  and  me  well  knows  what  Ingeins  often  does.  If 

*  I  accompanies  this  expedition,  unbeknown  and  second  cladge, 

*  "  may  I  not  combine  my  calling  with  change  of  air,  and  prove 

*  "  a  service  to  my  feller  creeturs  ?  "    "  Sairey,"  was  Mrs.  Harris's 

*  reply,  "you  was  bom  to  be  a  blessing  to  your  sex,  and  bring 

*  "  'em  through  it    Good  go  with  you  !    But  keep  your  distance 

*  "  till  called  in,  Lord  bless  you  Mrs.  Gamp ;  for  people  is  known 

*  "  by  the  company  they  keeps,  and  litterary  and  artistickle  society 

*  "  might  be  the  ruin  of  you  before  you  was  aware,  with  your  best 

*  customers,  both  sick  and  monthly,  if  they  took  a  pride  in  them- 

*  "selves." 

«II.    MRS.  GAMP  IS  DESCRIPTIVE. 

*  The  number  of  the  cab  had  a  seven  in  it  I  think,  and  a  ought 

*  I  know — and  if  this  should  meet  his  eye  (which  it  was  a  black 
Mrs.  '  'un,  new  done,  that  he  saw  with ;  the  other  was  tied  up),  I  give 
cabman.      *  him  waming  that  he'd  better  take  that  umbereller  and  patten  to 

*  the  Hackney-coach  Office  before  he  repents  it.  He  was  a 
'  young  man  in  a  weskit  with  sleeves  to  it  and  strings  behind, 

*  and  needn't  flatter  himsef  with  a  suppogition  of  escape,  as  I 

*  gave  this  description  of  him  to  the  Police  the  moment  I  found 
'  he  had  drove  off  with  my  property ;  and  if  he  thinks  there  an't 

*  laws  enough  he's  much  mistook — 1  tell  him  that. 

*  I  do.  assure  you,  Mrs.  Harris,  when  I  stood  in  the  railways 

*  office  that  morning  with  my  bundle  on  my  arm  and  one  patten 

*  in  my  hand,  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather, 

*  far  less  porkmangers  which  was  a  lumping  against  me,  continual 

*  and  sewere  all  round.    I  was  drove  about  like  a  brute  animal 

*  and  almost  worritted  into  fits,  when  a  gentleman  with  a  large 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1847. 


Ticklish 
society. 


Sple7idid  Strolling, 


II 


*  shirt-collar  and  a  hook  nose,  and  a  eye  like  one  of  Mr.  Sweedle-  broad- 

,  stairs: 

*  pipes's  hawks,  and  long  locks  of  hair,  and  wiskers  that  I  wouldn  t  1847- 

*  have  no  lady  as  I  was  engaged  to  meet  suddenly  a  turning  George 

*  round  a  comer,  for  any  sum  of  money  you  could  offer  me,  says,  shanki 

*  laughing,  "  Halloa,  Mrs.  Gamp,  what  are  you  up  to  ! "    I  didn't 

*  know  him  from  a  man  (except  by  his  clothes) ;  but  I  says  faintly, 

*  "  If  you're  a  Christian  man,  show  me  where  to  get  a  second- 

*  "  cladge  ticket  for  Manjestir,  and  have  me  put  in  a  carriage,  or 

*  "  I  shall  drop  !  "    Which  he  kindly  did,  in  a  cheerful  kind  of  a 

*  way,  skipping  about  in  the  strangest  manner  as  ever  I  see, 

*  making  all  kinds  of  actions,  and  looking  and  vinking  at  me 

*  from  under  the  brim  of  his  hat  (which  was  a  good  deal  turned 

*  up),  to  that  extent,  that  I  should  have  thought  he  meant  some- 

*  thing  but  for  being  so  flurried  as  not  to  have  no  thoughts  at  all 

*  until  I  was  put  in  a  carriage  along  with  a  individgle — the  politest  Mr.  wiison 

*  as  ever  I  see — in  a  shepherd's  plaid  suit  with  a  long  gold  watch-  dresser. 

*  guard  hanging  round  his  neck,  and  his  hand  a  trembling  through 

*  nervousness  worse  than  a  aspian  leaf. 

*  "  I'm  wery  appy,  ma'am,"  he  says — the  politest  vice  as  ever 

*  "  I  heerd  ! — "  to  go  down  with  a  lady  belonging  to  our  party." 

*  "  Our  party,  sir  ! "  I  says. 

*  "  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  says,  "  I'm  Mr.  Wilson.    I'm  going  down 

*  "  with  the  wigs." 

'  Mrs.  Harris,  wen  he  said  he  was  agoing  down  with  the  wigs, 

*  such  was  my  state  of  confugion  and  worrit  that  I  thought  he 

*  must  be  connected  with  the  Government  in  some  ways  or 

*  another,  but  directly  moment  he  explains  himsef,  for  he  says : 

*  "  There's  not  a  theatre  in  London  worth  mentioning  that  I 

*  "  don't  attend  punctually.    There's  five-and-twenty  wigs  in  these 

*  "  boxes,  ma'am,"  he  says,  a  pinting  towards  a  heap  of  luggage, 

*  "  as  was  worn  at  the  Queen's  Fancy  Ball.    There's  a  black  wig,  wig  exp*. 

*  ma'am,"  he  says,  "as  was  worn  by  Garrick ;  there's  a  red  one, 

*  **  ma'am,"  he  says,  "  as  was  worn  by  Kean  ;  "  there's  a  brown 

*  *'  one,  ma'am,"  he  says,  "  as  was  worn  by  Kemble  ;  there's  a 

*  "  yellow  one,  ma'am,"  he  says,  "  as  was  made  for  Cooke ;  there's 

*  "  a  grey  one,  ma'am,"  he  says,  "  as  I  measured  Mr.  Young  for, 

*  "mysef;  and  there's  a  white  one,  ma'am,  that  Mr.  Macready 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1847. 


In  the 

Sweedle- 
pipes  line. 


Bobadil's 
whiskers. 


The  great 
George. 


*  "  went  mad  in.    There's  a  flaxen  one  as  was  got  up  express  for 

*  "  Jenny  Lind  the  night  she  came  out  at  the  Italian  Opera.  It 

*  "  was  very  much  applauded  was  that  wig,  ma'am,  through  the 

*  "  evening.    It  had  a  great  reception.    The  audience  broke  out, 

*  "  the  moment  they  see  it." 

*  "Are  you  in  Mr.  Sweedlepipes's  line,  sir?"  I  says. 

*  "  Which  is  that,  ma'am  ?  "  he  says — the  softest  and  genteelest 

*  vice  I  ever  heerd,  I  do  declare,  Mrs.  Harris  ! 

*  "  Hair-dressing,"  I  says. 

*  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replies,  "  I  have  that  honour.    Do  you  see 

*  "  this,  ma'am  ?  "  he  says,  holding  up  his  right  hand. 

*  "  I  never  see  such  a  trembling,"  I  says  to  him.  And  I  never 
*did! 

*  "All  along  of  Her  Majesty's  Costume  Ball,  ma'am,"  he  says. 

*  "  The  excitement  did  it.    Two  hundred  and  fifty-seven  ladies  of 

*  "the  first  rank  and  fashion  had  their  heads  got  up  on  that 

*  "  occasion  by  this  hand,  and  my  t'other  one.    I  was  at  it  eight- 

*  "and-forty  hours  on  my  feet,  ma'am,  without  rest     It  was  a 

*  "  Powder  ball,  ma'am.    We  have  a  Powder  piece  at  Liverpool. 

*  "  Have  I  not  the  pleasure,"  he  says,  looking  at  me  curious, 

*  "  of  addressing  Mrs.  Gamp  ?  " 

*  "  Gamp  I  am,  sir,"  I  replies.    "  Both  by  name  and  natur." 

*  "  Would  you  like  to  see  your  beeograffer's  moustache  and 

*  "  wiskers,  ma'am  ?  "  he  says.    "  I've  got  'em  in  this  box." 

*  "  Drat  my  beeografFer,  sir,"  I  says,  "  he  has  given  me  no 

*  "  region  to  wish  to  know  anythink  about  him." 

*  "  Oh,  Missus  Gamp,  I  ask  your  parden " — I  never  see  such 

*  a  poHte  man,  Mrs.  Harris  !    "  P'raps,"  he  says,  "  if  you're  not 

*  "  of  the  party,  you  don't  know  who  it  was  that  assisted  you  into 

*  "  this  carriage  !  " 

<  "  No,  Sir,"  I  says,  "  I  don't,  indeed." 

*  "  Why,  ma'am,"  he  says,  a  wisperin',  "  that  was  George, 

*  "ma'am." 

*  "  What  George,  sir  ?    I  don't  know  no  George,"  says  I. 

*  "  The  great  George,  ma'am,"  says  he.    "  The  Crookshanks." 

*  If  you'll  believe  me,  Mrs.  Harris,  I  turns  my  head,  and  see 
'  the  wery  man  a  making  picturs  of  me  on  his  thumb  nail,  at  the 


splendid  Strolling, 


13 


*  winder  !  while  another  of  *em — a  tall,  slim,  melancolly  gent,  Broad- 

STAIRS : 

*  with  dark  hair  and  a  bage  vice — looks  over  his  shoulder,  1847. 

*  with  his  head  o'  one  side  as  if  he  understood  the  subject,  and  John 

Leech. 

*  cooly  says,  "  /Ve  draw'd  her  several  times — in  Punch,''  he  says 
'  too  !    The  owdacious  wretch  ! 

*  "  Which  I  never  touches,  Mr.  Wilson,"  I  remarks  out  loud — 
'  I  couldn't  have  helped  it,  Mrs.  Harris,  if  you  had  took  my  life 

*  for  it ! — "  which  I  never  touches,  Mr.  Wilson,  on  account  of  the 

*  lemon ! " 

*  "  Hush  !  "  says  Mr.  Wilson.    "  There  he  is !  " 

'  I  only  see  a  fat  gentleman  with  curly  black  hair  and  a  merry  Mark 

Lemon. 

*  face,  a  standmg  on  the  platform  rubbmg  his  two  hands  over  one 

*  another,  as  if  he  was  washing  of  'em,  and  shaking  his  head  and 

*  shoulders  wery  much ;  and  I  was  a  wondering  wot  Mr.  Wilson 

*  meant,  wen  he  says,  "  There's  Dougladge,  Mrs.  Gamp  ! "  he  says, 

*  "  There's  him  as  wrote  the  life  of  Mrs.  Caudle  ! " 

*  Mrs.  Harris,  wen  I  see  that  little  willain  bodily  before  me,  it  Douglas 

Jerrold. 

*  give  me  such  a  turn  that  I  was  all  in  a  tremble.    If  I  hadn't  lost 

*  my  umbereller  in  the  cab,  I  must  have  done  him  a  injury  with 

*  it !  Oh  the  bragian  little  traitor !  right  among  the  ladies,  Mrs. 
*■  Harris ;  looking  his  wickedest  and  deceitfullest  of  eyes  while  he 

*  was  a  talking  to  'em  ;  laughing  at  his  own  jokes  as  loud  as  you 

*  please ;  holding  his  hat  in  one  hand  to  cool  his-sef,  and  tossing 
back  his  iron-grey  mop  of  a  head  of  hair  with  the  other,  as  if  it 

*  was  so  much  shavings — there,  Mrs.  Harris,  I  see  him,  getting 

*  encouragement  from  the  pretty  delooded  creeturs,  which  never 

*  know'd  that  sweet  saint,  Mrs.  C,  as  I  did,  and  being  treated 

*  with  as  much  confidence  as  if  he'd  never  wiolated  none  of  the 
'  domestic  ties,  and  never  showed  up  nothing !  Oh  the  aggra- 
'  wation  of  that  Dougladge  !  Mrs.  Harris,  if  I  hadn't  apologiged 

*  to  Mr.  Wilson,  and  put  a  little  bottle  to  my  lips  which  was  in 

*  my  pocket  for  the  journey,  and  which  it  is  very  rare  indeed  I 

*  have  about  me,  I  could  not  have  abared  the  sight  of  him — there, 

*  Mrs.  Harris  !  I  could  not ! — I  must  have  tore  him,  or  have  give 

*  way  and  fainted. 

'  Wliile  the  bell  was  a  ringing,  and  the  luggage  of  the  hammer- 

*  toors  in  great  confugion — all  a  litter'ry  indeed — was  handled  up, 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1847. 

Dudley 
Costella 


Frank 
Stone. 


Augustus 
Egg. 


J.  F. 


C  D. 


Only  the 
engine ! 


Cniik- 
shank's 
Bottlt. 


*  Mr.  Wilson  demeens  his-sef  politer  than  ever.  "  That,"  he  says, 
'  "  Mrs.  Gamp,"  a  pin  ting  to  a  officer-looking  gentleman,  that  a 

*  lady  with  a  little  basket  was  a  taking  care  on,  *'  is  another  of  our 

*  "  party.    He's  a  author  too — continivally  going  up  the  walley  ot 

<  "  the  Muses,  Mrs.  Gamp.    There,"  he  says,  alluding  to  a  fine 

*  looking,  portly  gentleman,  with  a  face  like  a  amiable  full  moon, 

*  and  a  short  mild  gent,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  is  two  more  of 

*  "  our  artists,  Mrs.  G,  well  beknowed  at  the  Royal  Academy,  as 

*  "  sure  as  stones  is  stones,  and  eggs  is  eggs.  This  resolute  gent," 
'  he  says,  "  a  coming  along  here  as  is  aperrently  going  to  take 

*  "  the  railways  by  storm — him  with  the  tight  legs,  and  his  weskit 

*  "  very  much  buttoned,  and  his  mouth  very  much  shut,  and  his 

*  "  coat  a  flying  open,  and  his  heels  a  giving  it  to  the  platform,  is 
^  "  a  cricket  and  beeografifer,  and  our  principal  tragegian."    "  But 

*  "  who,"  says  I,  when  the  bell  had  left  off,  and  the  train  had 

*  begun  to  move,  "  who,  Mr.  Wilson,  is  the  wild  gent  in  the 
'  "  prespiration,  that's  been  a  tearing  up  and  down  all  this  time 

*  "  with  a  great  box  of  papers  under  his  arm,  a  talking  to  every- 

*  "body  wery  indistinct,  and  exciting  of  himself  dreadful?" 

<  "  Why  ? "  says  Mr.  Wilson,  with  a  smile.    "  Because,  sir,"  I 

*  says,  "  he's  being  left  behind."   "  Good  God  ! "  cries  Mr.  Wilson, 

*  turning  pale  and  putting  out  his  head,  "  it's  your  beeograffer — 

*  "  the  Manager — and  he  has  got  the  money,  Mrs.  Gamp !  " 

*  Hous'ever,  some  one  chucked  him  into  the  train  and  we  went 

*  off.    At  the  first  shreek  of  the  whistle,  Mrs.  Harris,  I  turned 

*  white,  for  I  had  took  notice  of  some  of  them  dear  creeturs  as 

*  was  the  cause  of  my  being  in  company,  and  I  know'd  the  danger 

*  that — but  Mr.  Wilson,  which  is  a  married  man,  puts  his  hand  on 
mine,  and  says,  "  Mrs.  Gamp,  calm  yourself;  it's  only  the  "Ingein." 

Of  those  of  the  party  with  whom  these  humorous  liberties  were 
taken,  there  are  only  two  now  living  to  complain  of  their  friendly 
caricaturist ;  and  Mr.  Cruikshank  will  perhaps  join  me  in  a  frank 
forgiveness  not  the  less  heartily  for  the  kind  words  about  himself 
that  reached  me  from  Broadstairs  not  many  days  after  Mrs.  Gamp. 

*  At  Canterbury  yesterday '  (2nd  of  September)  *  I  bought  George 

*  Cruikshank's  Bottle.    I  think  it  very  powerful  indeed :  the  two 

*  last  plates  most  admirable,  except  that  the  boy  and  girl  in  the 


splendid  Strolling. 


15 


*  very  last  are  too  young,  and  the  girl  more  like  a  circus-  Broai>. 

*  phenomenon  than   that  no-phenomenon  she  is  intended  to  ^847- 

*  represent.  I  question,  however,  whether  anybody  else  living 
'  could  have  done  it  so  well    There  is  a  woman  in  the  last  plate 

*  but  one,  garrulous  about  the  murder,  with  a  fchild  in  her  arms, 

*  that  is  as  good  as  Hogarth.    Also,  the  man  who  is  stooping 

*  down,  looking  at  the  body.    The  philosophy  of  the  thing,  as  a 

*  great  lesson,  I  think  all  wrong  \  because  to  be  striking,  and 
original  too,  the  drinking  should  have  begun  in  sorrow,  or 

*  poverty,  or  ignorance — the  three  things  in  which,  in  its  awful 

*  aspect,  it  does  begin.    The  design  would  then  have  been  a 

*  double-handed  sword — but  too  "  radical "  for  good  old  George, 

*  I  suppose.' 

The  same  letter  made  mention  of  other  matters  of  interest.  Profits  of 
His  accounts  for  the  first  half-year  of  Dombey  were  so  much  in 
excess  of  what  had  been  expected  from  the  new  publishing 
arrangements,  that  from  this  date  all  embarrassments  connected 
with  money  were  brought  to  a  close.  His  future  profits  varied  of 
course  with  his  varying  sales,  but  there  was  always  enough,  and 
savings  were  now  to  begin.    'The  profits  of  the  half-year  are 

*  brilliant.    Deducting  the  hundred  pounds  a  month  paid  six  The  time 

*  times,  I  have  still  to  receive  two  thousand  two  hundred  and  savings. 

*  twenty  pounds,  which  I  think  is  tidy.    Don't  you  ?  .  .  .  Stone 

*  is  still  here,  and  I  lamed  his  foot  by  walking  him  seventeen 
'  miles  the  day  before  yesterday  ;  but  otherwise  he  flourisheth.  .  . 
'  Why  don't  you  bring  down  a  carpet-bag-full  of  books,  and  take 

*  possession  of  the  drawing-room  all  the  morning  ?    My  opinion 

*  is  that  Goldsmith  would  die  more  easy  by  the  seaside.  Charley 

*  and  Walley  have  been  taken  to  school  this  morning  in  high 

*  spirits,  and  at  London  Bridge  will  be  folded  in  the  arms  of 

*  Blimber.  The  Government  is  about  to  issue  a  Sanitary  com- 
'  mission,  and  Lord  John,  I  am  right  well  pleased  to  say,  has 

*  appointed  Henry  Austin  secretary.'    Mr.  Austin,  who  afterwards  Brother-in- 

law's  ap- 

held  the  same  office  under  the  Sanitary  act,  had  married  his  poi°'™eau 
youngest  sister  Letitia ;  and  of  his  two  youngest  brothers  I  may 
add  that  Alfred,  also  a  civil-engineer,  became  one  of  the  sanitary 
inspectors,  and  that  Augustus  was  now  placed  in  a  city  employ- 


i6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  VI. 


Broad-    ment  by  Mr.  Thomas  Chapman,  which  after  a  little  time  he 
1847.     surrendered,  and  then  found  his  way  to  America,  where  he  died. 

The  next  Broadstairs  letter  (5th  of  September)  resumed  the 
subject  of  Goldsmith,  whose  life  I  was  then  bringing  nearly  to 
completion.  *  Supposing  your  Goldsmith  made  a  general  sen- 
'  sation,  what  should  you  think  of  doing  a  cheap  edition  of  his 

*  works  ?    I  have  an  idea  that  we  might  do  some  things  of  that 

*  sort  with  considerable  effect.    There  is  really  no  edition  of  the 

*  great  British  novelists  in  a  handy  nice  form,  and  would  it  not 
A  design     *  be  a  likely  move  to  do  it  with  some  attractive  feature  that  could 

abandoned. 

*  not  be  given  to  it  by  the  Teggs  and  such  people  ?  Supposing 

*  one  wrote  an  essay  on  Fielding  for  instance,  and  another  on 

*  Smollett,  and  another  on  Sterne,  recalling  how  one  read  them  as 

*  a  child  (no  one  read  them  younger  than  I,  I  think),  and  how 
'  one  gradually  grew  up  into  a  different  knowledge  of  them,  and 

*  so  forth — would  it  not  be  interesting  to  many  people  ?    I  should 

*  like  to  know  if  you  descry  anything  in  this.    It  is  one  of  the 

*  dim  notions  fluctuating  within  me.*  .  .  The  profits,  brave 

*  indeed,   are   four  hundred  pounds  more  than  the  utmost  I 

*  expected.  .  .  The  same  yearnings  have  been  mine,  in  reference 

*  to  the  Praslin  business.    It  is  pretty  clear  to  me,  for  one  thing, 

*  that  the  Duchess  was  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  women  in 

*  the  world,  and  that  it  would  have  been  hard  work  for  anybody 
The  Praslin  '  to  havc  got  on  with  her.    It  is  strange  to  see  a  bloody  reflection 

*  of  our  friends  Eugene  Sue  and  Dumas  in  the  whole  melodrama. 

*  Don't  you  think  so.  .  .  remembering  what  we  often  said  of  the 

*  canker  at  the  root  of  all  that  Paris  life  ?    I  dreamed  of  you,  in  a 

*  wild  manner,  all  last  night.  .  .  A  sea  fog  here,  which  prevents 

*  one's  seeing  the  low-water  mark.  A  circus  on  the  cliff  to  the 
'  right,  and  of  course  I  have  a  box  to-night !  Deep  slowness  in 
'  the  inimitable's  brain.    A  shipwreck  on  the  Goodwin  sands  last 

*  Sunday,  which  Wally,  with  a  hawk's  eye,  saw  go  down  :  for 

*  Another,  which  for  many  reasons  '  for  six  weeks  in  the  spring,  and  see- 

we  may  regret  went  also  into  the  limbo  '  ing  whether  anything  is  to  be  done 

of  unrealized  designs,  is  sketched  in  *  there,  in  the  way  of  a  book  ?  I  fancy 

the  subjoined  (7th  of  January,  1848).  *  it  might  turn  out  well.'    The  Mac 

'  Mac  and  I  think  of  going  to  Ireland  of  course  is  Maclise. 


tragedy. 


Another 
dropped 
design. 


§  I.] 


splendid  Strolling. 


17 


*  which  assertion,  subsequently  confirmed  and  proved,  he  was  Broad- 


Devonshire-terrace  meanwhile  had  been  quitted  by  his  tenant  \ 
and  coming  up  joyfully  himself  to  take  possession,  he  brought  for 
completion  in  his  old  home  an  important  chapter  of  Domhey. 
On  the  way  he  lost  his  portmanteau,  but  *  Thank  God  !  the  MS. 
'  of  the  chapter  wasn't  in  it  Whenever  I  travel,  and  have  any- 
*■  thing  of  that  valuable  article,  I  always  carry  it  in  my  pocket.'* 
He  had  begun  at  this  time  to  find  difficulties  in  writing  at  Broad-  Seaside 
stairs,  of  which  he  told  me  on  his  return.    *  Vagrant  music  is  music 

*  getting  to  that  height  here,  and  is  so  impossible  to  be  escaped 

*  from,  that  I  fear  Broadstairs  and  I  must  part  company  in  time  to 

*  come.    Unless  it  pours  of  rain,  I  cannot  write  half-an-hour 

*  without  the  most  excruciating  organs,  fiddles,  bells,  or  glee- 
'  singers.  There  is  a  violin  of  the  most  torturing  kind  under  the 
'  window  now  (time,  ten  in  the  morning)  and  an  Italian  box  of 

*  music  on  the  steps — both  in  full  blast'  He  closed  with  a 
mention  of  improvements  in  the  Margate  theatre  since  his 
memorable  last  visit.  In  the  past  two  years  it  had  been  managed 
by  a  son  of  the  great  comedian,  Dowton,  with  whose  name  it  is 
pleasant  to  connect  this  note.    ^  We  went  to  the  manager's  benefit  Manager  01 

Margate 

*  on  Wednesday'  (loth  of  September) :  ^  As  You  Like  It  really  theatre. 

*  very  well  done,  and  a  most  excellent  house.     Mr.  Dowton 

*  delivered  a  sensible  and  modest  kind  of  speech  on  the  occasion, 

*  setting  forth  his  conviction  that  a  means  of  instruction  and 

*  entertainment  possessing  such  a  literature  as  the  stage  in 

*  England,  could  not  pass  away ;  and  that  what  inspired  great 

*  minds,  and  delighted  great  men,  two  thousand  years  ago,  and 

*  did  the  same  in  Shakespeare's  day,  must  have  within  itself  a 

*  principle  of  life  superior  to  the  whim  and  fashion  of  the  hour. 

*  And  with  that,  and  with  cheers,  he  retired.    He  really  seems  a 

•  *  Here  we  are '  (23rd  of  August)  *  somewhere  between  London-bridge 

*  in  the  noble  old  premises  ;  and  very  *  and  here.  It  contained  on  a  mode- 
nice  they  look,  all  things  considered.  *  rate  calculation  £^0  worth  of  clothes. 

*  .  .  .  Trifles  happen  to  me  which  *  I  have  no  shirt  to  put  on,  and  am 

*  occur  to  nobody  else.    My  poitman-  '  obliged  to  send  out  to  a  barber  to 

*  teau  "fell  off"  a  cab  last  night  '  come  and  shave  me. ' 

VOL.  II.  <; 


*  horribly  maltreated  at  the  time.' 


STAIRS : 

1847. 


i8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  vt. 


Broai>- 

STAIRS  : 

1847. 


First 

popular 

edition. 


Suggested 
delay  of 
Christmas 
book. 


Emenrfa- 
tion  for 
Hamlet; 


*  most  respectable  man,  and  he  has  cleared  out  this  dust-hole  of  a 
'  theatre  into  something  like  decency.' 

He  was  to  be  in  London  at  the  end  of  the  month  :  but  I  had 
from  him  meanwhile  his  preface*  for  his  first  completed  book  in 
the  popular  edition  {Pickwick  being  now  issued  in  that  form,  with 
an  illustration  by  Leslie) ;  and  sending  me  shortly  after  (12th  of 
Sept.)  the  first  few  slips  of  the  story  of  the  Haunted  Man  proposed 
for  his  next  Christmas  book,  he  told  me  he  must  finish  it  in  less  than 
a  month  if  it  was  to  be  done  at  all,  Dombey  having  now  become 
very  importunate.  This  prepared  me  for  his  letter  of  a  week's 
later  date.    *  Have  been  at  work  all  day,  and  am  seedy  in  con- 

*  sequence.    Dombey  takes  so  much  time,  and  requires  to  be  so 

*  carefully  done,  that  I  really  begin  to  have  serious  doubts  whether 

*  it  is  wise  to  go  on  with  the  Christmas  book.    Your  kind  help  is 

*  invoked.    What  do  you  think  ?    Would  there  be  any  distinctly 

*  bad  effect  in  holding  this  idea  over  for  another  twelvemonth  ? 

*  saying  nothing  whatever  till  November ;  and  then  announcing 

*  in  the  Dombey  that  its  occupation  of  my  entire  time  prevents  the 

*  continuance  of  the  Christmas  series  until  next  year,  when  it  is 
*■  proposed  to  be  renewed.    There  might  not  be  anything  in  that 

*  but  a  possibility  of  an  extra  lift  for  the  little  book  when  it  did 

*  come — eh  ?    On  the  other  hand,  I  am  very  loath  to  lose  the 

*  money.    And  still  more  so  to  leave  any  gap  at  Christmas  fire- 

*  sides  which  I  ought  to  fill.   In  short  I  am  (forgive  the  expression) 
SLOWED  if  I  know  what  to  do.    I  am  a  literary  Kitely — and  you 

*  ought  to  sympathize  and  help.    If  I  had  no  Dombey,  I  could 

*  write  and  finish  the  story  with  the  bloom  on  but  there's  the 

*  rub  .  .  .  Which  unfamiliar  quotation  reminds  me  of  a  Shak- 

*  spearian  (put  an  e  before  the  s;  I  like  it  much  better)  speculation 

*  of  mine.    What  do  you  say  to  "  take  arms  against  a  sea  of 

*  "  troubles  "  having  been  originally  written  "  make  arms,"  which  is 

*  the  action  of  swimming.   It  would  get  rid  of  a  horrible  grievance 


*  *  Do  you  see  anything  to  object  to 

*  in  it?    I  have  never  had  so  much 

*  difficulty,  I  think,  in  setting  about 
'  any  slight  thing ;  for  I  really  didn't 

*  know  that  I  had  a  word  to  say,  and 

*  nothing  seems  to  live  'twixt  what  I 


*  have  said  and  silence.    The  advan- 

*  tage  of  it  is,  that  the  latter  part 

*  opens  an  idea  for  future  prefaces  all 

*  through  the  series,  and  may  serve 

*  perhaps  to  make  a  feature  of  them.* 
(7th  of  September,  1847.) 


splendid  Strolling, 


19 


'  in  the  figure,  and  make  it  plain  and  apt    I  think  of  setting  up  Broad- 

*  a  claim  to  live  in  The  House  at  Stratford  rent-free,  on  the     1847-  * 

*  strength  of  this  suggestion.    You  are  not  to  suppose  that  I  am 

*  anything  but  disconcerted  to-day,  in  the  agitation  of  my  soul 

*  concerning  Christmas ;  but  I  have  been  brooding,  like  Dombey 

*  himself,  over  Dombey  these  two  days,  until  I  really  can't  afford 

*  to  be  depressed.'  To  his  Shakespearian  suggestion  I  replied  fui^^gj*,^ 
that  it  would  hardly  give  him  the  claim  he  thought  of  setting  up, 

for  that  swimming  through  your  troubles  would  not  be  *  opposing ' 
them.  And  upon  the  other  point  I  had  no  doubt  of  the  wisdom 
of  delay.  The  result  was  that  the  Christmas  story  was  laid  aside 
until  the  following  year. 

The  year's  closing  incidents  were  his  chairmanship  at  a  meeting  Public 
of  the  Leeds  Mechanics'  Society  on  the  ist  of  December,  and  his 
opening  of  the  Glasgow  Athenaeum  on  the  28th  ;  where,  to  im- 
mense assemblages  in  both,  he  contrasted  the  obstinacy  and 
cruelty  of  the  power  of  ignorance  with  the  docility  and  gentleness 
of  the  power  of  knowledge  ;  pointed  the  use  of  popular  institutes 
in  supplementing  what  is  first  learnt  in  life,  by  the  later  education 
for  its  employments  and  the  equipment  for  its  domesticities  and 
duties,  which  the  grown  person  needs  from  day  to  day  as  much 
as  the  child  its  reading  and  writing ;  and  he  closed  at  Glasgow 
with  allusion  to  a  bazaar  set  on  foot  by  the  ladies  of  the  city, 
under  patronage  of  the  Queen,  for  adding  books  to  its  Athe- 
naeum library.    *  We  never  tire  of  the  friendships  we  form  with  Book- 

.  friends. 

*  books,'  he  said,  *  and  here  they  will  possess  the  added  charm  of 

*  association  with  their  donors.    Some  neighbouring  Glasgow 

*  widow  will  be  mistaken  for  that  remoter  one  whom  Sir  Roger  de 

*  Coverley  could  not  forget  \  Sophia's  muff  will  be  seen  and  loved, 

*  by  another  than  Tom  Jones,  going  down  the  High  Street  some 

*  winter  day ;  and  the  grateful  students  of  a  library  thus  filled 
'  will  be  apt,  as  to  the  fair  ones  who  have  helped  to  people  it,  to 

*  couple  them  in  their  thoughts  with  Principles  of  the  Population 

*  and  Additions  to  the  History  of  Europe,  by  an  author  of  older 

*  date  than  Sheriff  Alison.'  At  which  no  one  laughed  so  loudly  as 
the  Sheriff  himselt,  who  had  cordially  received  Dickens  as  his 
guest,  and  stood  with  him  on  the  platform. 

c  $ 


20 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  VI. 


Edin- 
burgh : 
1847-48- 

With 

Sheriff 

Alison. 


Friendly 
reception. 


Jeffrey  and 
Knowles. 


Purchase 

of  Shake- 
speare's 
bouse. 


On  the  last  day  but  one  of  the  old  year  he  wrote  to  me  from 
Edinburgh.    *  We  came  over  this  afternoon,  leaving  Glasgow  at 

*  one  o'clock.    Alison  lives  in  style  in  a  handsome  country  house 

*  out  of  Glasgow,  and  is  a  capital  fellow,  with  an  agreeable  wife, 

*  nice  little  daughter,  cheerful  niece,  all  things  pleasant  in  his 

*  household.    I  went  over  the  prison  and  lunatic  asylum  with  him 

*  yesterday ;  at  the  Lord  Provost's  had  gorgeous  state-lunch  with 

*  the  Town  Council ;  and  was  entertained  at  a  great  dinner-party 

*  at  night.    Unbounded  hospitality  and  enthoozymoozy  the  order 

*  of  the  day,  and  I  have  never  been  more  heartily  received  any- 

*  where,  or  enjoyed  myself  more  completely.    The  great  chemist, 

*  Gregory,  who  spoke  at  the  meeting,  returned  with  us  to  Edin- 

*  burgh  to-day,  and  gave  me  many  new  lights  on  the  road  regarding 

*  the  extraordinary  pains  Macaulay  seems  for  years  to  have  taken 

*  to  make  himself  disagreeable  and  disliked  here.    No  one  else, 

*  on  that  side,  would  have  had  the  remotest  chance  of  being 

*  unseated  at  the  last  election ;  and,  though  Gregory  voted  for 

*  him,  I  thought  he  seemed  quite  as  well  pleased  as  anybody  else 

*  that  he  didn't  come  in  ...  I  am  sorry  to  report  the  Scott 

*  Monument  a  failure.    It  is  like  the  spire  of  a  Gothic  church 

*  taken  off  and  stuck  in  the  ground.'  On  the  first  day  of  1848, 
still  in  Edinburgh,  he  wrote  again:  'Jeffrey,  who  is  obliged  to 

*  hold  a  kind  of  morning  court  in  his  own  study  during  the 

*  holidays,  came  up  yesterday  in  great  consternation,  to  tell  me 
'  that  a  person  had  just  been  to  make  and  sign  a  declaration  of 

bankruptcy ;  and  that  on  looking  at  the  signature  he  saw  it  was 

*  James  Sheridan  Knowles.   He  immediately  sent  after,  and  spoke 

*  with  him ;  and  of  what  passed  I  am  eager  to  talk  with  you.'  The 
talk  will  bring  back  the  main  subject  of  this  chapter,  from  which 
another  kind  of  strolling  has  led  me  away;  for  its  results  were 
other  amateur  performances,  of  which  the  object  was  to  benefit 
Knowles. 

This  was  the  year  when  a  committee  had  been  formed  for  the 
purchase  and  preservation  of  Shakespeare's  house  at  Stratford, 
and  the  performances  in  question  took  the  form  of  contributions 
to  the  endowment  of  a  curatorship  to  be  held  by  the  author  of 
Virginius  and  the  Hunchback.    The  endowment  was  abandoned 


splendid  Strolling. 


21 


upon  the  town  and  council  of  Stratford  finally  (and  very  properly)   London  : 

.  1848. 

taking  charge  of  the  house  ;  but  the  sum  realised  was  not  with-  

.  Scheme  to 

drawn  from  the  object  really  desired,  and  one  of  the  finest  of  benefit 

Knowles. 

dramatists  profited  yet  more  largely  by  it  than  Leigh  Hunt  did  by 
the  former  enterprise.  It  may  be  proper  to  remark  also,  that, 
like  Leigh  Hunt,  Knowles  received  soon  after,  through  Lord 
John  Russell,  the  same  liberal  pension ;  and  that  smaller  claims 
to  which  attention  had  been  similarly  drawn  were  not  forgotten, 
Mr.  Poole,  after  much  kind  help  from  the  Bounty  Fund,  being  a 
little  later  placed  on  the  Civil  List  for  half  the  amount  by  the  Civii-iist 

pensions. 

same  minister  and  friend  of  letters. 

Dickens  threw  himself  into  the  new  scheme  with  all  his  old 
energy*;  and  prefatory  mention  may  be  made  of  our  difficulty  in 
selection  of  a  suitable  play  to  alternate  with  our  old  Ben  Jonson. 
The  Alchemist  had  been  such  a  favourite  with  some  of  us,  that, 
before  finally  laying  it  aside,  we  went  through  two  or  three  re- 
hearsals, in  which  I  recollect  thinking  Dickens's  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon  as  good  as  anything  he  had  done ;  and  now  the  same 
trouble,  with  the  same  result,  arising  from  a  vain  desire  to  please  P'^ys  re- 

'  .  .  hearsed. 

everybody,  was  taken  successively  with  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 

*  It  would  amuse  the  reader,  but  '  be  referred  to  on  the  stage  ;   but  Instruction! 

occupy  too  much  space,  to  add  to  my  *  those  who  are  imperfect  to  take  their  |^°g^^^g^^jg 

former  illustrations  of  his  managerial  '  words  from  the  prompter.  Everyone 

troubles;  but  from  an  elaborate  paper  *  to  act,  as  nearly  as  possible,  as  on 

of  rules  for  rehearsals,  which  I  have  *  the  night  of  performance  ;  everyone 

found  in  his  handwriting,  I  quote  the  '  to  speak  out,  so  as  to  be  audible 

opening  and  the  close.    *  Remember-  '  through  the  house.    And  every  mis- 

*  ing  the  very  imperfect  condition  of  '  take  of  exit,  entrance,  or  situation,  to 

*  all  our  plays  at  present,  tlie  general  *  be  corrected //^r^-i? successively.' 

*  expectation  in  reference  to  them,  the  He  closes  thus.    '  All  who  were  con- 

*  kind  of  audience  before  which  they  '  cerned  in  the  first  getting  up  of 

*  will  be  presented,  and  the  near  ap-  ♦  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^  and  re- 
'  proach  of  the  nights  of  performance,  *  member  how  carefully  the  stage  was 

*  I  hope  everybody  concerned  will  *  always  kept  then,  and  who  have 

*  abide  by  the  following  regulations,  *  been  engaged  in  the  late  rehearsals  of 
'  and  will  aid  in  strictly  carrying  them  '  tlie  Merry  Wives,  and  have  experi- 
'  out.'  Elaborate  are  the  regulations  '  enced  the  difficulty  of  getting  on,  or 
set  forth,  but  I  take  only  the  three  last.  'off:  of  being  heard,  or  of  hearing 

*  Silence,  on  the  stage  and  in  the  «  anybody  else  :  will,  I  am  sure,  ac- 

*  theatre,  to  be  faithtully  observed  ;  *  knowledge  the  indispensable  neces- 

*  the  lobbies  &c.  being  always  avail-  *  sity  of  these  regulations.' 

*  able  for  conversation.    No  book  to 


22 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vi. 


London  :  Beggar's  Busk,  and  Goldsmith's  Good  Matured  Man,  with  Jerrold's 
1848. 

 characteristic  drama  of  the  Rent  Day,  and  Bulwer^s  masterly 

comedy  of  Money.  Choice  was  at  last  made  of  Shakespeare's 
^^^^y  'iVives,  in  which  Lemon  played  Falstaff,  I  took  again  the 

chosen.  jealous  husband  as  in  Jonson's  play,  and  Dickens  was  Justice 
Shallow  ;  to  which  was  added  a  farce,  Love,  Law,  and  Physick,  in 
which  Dickens  took  the  part  he  had  acted  long  ago,  before  his 
days  of  authorship  ;  and,  besides  the  professional  actresses  en- 
gaged, we  had  for  our  Dame  Quickly  the  lady  to  whom  the  world 
owes  incomparably  the  best  Concordance  to  Shakespeare  that  has 
ever  been  published,  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke.  The  success  was 
undoubtedly  very  great  At  Manchester,  Liverpool,  and  Edin- 
burgh there  were  single  representations;  but  Birmingham  and 
Glasgow  had  each  two  nights,  and  two  were  given  at  the  Hay- 
market,  on  one  of  which  the  Queen  and  Prince  were  present. 

Perform-     The  gross  Tcccipts  from  the  nine  performances,  before  the 

uices. 

necessary  large  deductions  for  London  and  local  charges,  were 
two  thousand  five  hundred  and  fifty-one  pounds  and  eightpence.* 
The  first  representation  was  in  London  on  the  15  th  of  April,  the 
last  in  Glasgow  on  the  20th  of  July,  and  everywhere  Dickens  was 
the  leading  figure.  In  the  enjoyment  as  in  the  labour  he  was 
first.  His  animal  spirits,  unresting  and  supreme,  were  the  at- 
traction of  rehearsal  at  morning,  and  of  the  stage  at  night.  At 
the  quiet  early  dinner,  and  the  more  jovial  unrestrained  supper, 
where  all  engaged  were  assembled  daily,  his  was  the  brightest 
face,  the  lightest  step,  the  pleasantest  word.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  need  for  rest  to  that  wonderful  vitality. 

Of  the  novel  begun  in  Switzerland,  at  which  he  has  worked 
assiduously  for  twenty  months,  and  which  the  April  number  in 
1848  brought  to  its  close,  some  account  remains  to  be  given. 

*  I  give  the  sums  taken  at  the  seve-  loj.,  and  £262  iSj.  6d. ;  Edin- 

ral  theatres.  Haymarket,  £2,19  14^-  ;  burgh,  £2,2^  is.  dd.  ;  Glasgow,  ^471 

Manchester,  ^^"266  \2s.  6d.  ;  Liver-  7s.  Sd.,  and  (at  half  the  prices  of  the 

pool,    ^^467  6s.  6d.  ;   Birmingham,  first  night)  £210  los. 


Dombey  and  Son. 


23 


II. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON. 
1846— 1848. 

Though  his  proposed  new  *  book  in  shilling  numbers '  had  lausannb: 
been  mentioned  to  me  three  months  before  he  quitted  England,  — ^— — 
he  knew  little  himself  at  that  time  or  when  he  left  excepting  the 
fact,  then  also  named,  that  it  was  to  do  with  Pride  what  its  pre-  Drift  of 

...  the  tele. 

decessor  had  done  with  Selfishness.  But  this  limit  he  soon  over- 
passed ;  and  the  succession  of  independent  groups  of  character, 
surprising  for  the  variety  of  their  forms  and  handling,  with 
which  he  enlarged  and  enriched  his  plan,  went  far  beyond  the 
range  of  the  passion  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Mr.  Dombey's  second 
wife. 

Obvious  causes  have  led  to  grave  under-estimates  of  this  novel. 

Its  first  five  numbers  forced  up  interest  and  expectation  so  high 

that  the  rest  of  necessity  fell  short ;  but  it  is  not  therefore  true  of  why  under- 
valued. 

the  general  conception  that  thus  the  wine  of  it  had  been  drawn, 
and  only  the  lees  left  In  the  treatment  of  acknowledged  master- 
pieces in  literature  it  not  seldom  occurs  that  the  genius  and  the 
art  of  the  master  have  not  pulled  together  to  the  close ;  but  if  a 
work  of  imagination  is  to  forfeit  its  higher  meed  of  praise  because 
its  pace  at  starting  has  not  been  uniformly  kept,  hard  measure 
would  have  to  be  dealt  to  books  of  undeniable  greatness.  Among 
other  critical  severities  it  was  said  here,  that  Paul  died  at  the 
beginning  not  for  any  need  of  the  story,  but  only  to  interest  its  Mistakes  of 
readers  somewhat  more ;  and  that  Mr.  Dombey  relented  at  the 
end  for  just  the  same  reason.  What  is  now  to  be  told  will  show 
how  little  ground  existed  for  either  imputation.  The  so-called 
'  violent  change  '  in  the  hero  has  more  lately  been  revived  in  the 
notices  of  Mr.  Taine,  who  says  that  spoils  a  fine  novel  ;^  but 
it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  apparent  alteration  no  unnaturalness 
of  change  was  involved,  and  certainly  the  adoption  of  it  was  not  a 
sacrifice  to  *  public  morality.'    While  every  other  portion  of  the 


24. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Lausanne  :  tale  had  to  Submit  to  such  varieties  in  development  as  the  cha- 
 racters  themselves  entailed,  the  design  affecting  Paul  and  his 

Adherence  _ 

desipL  father  had  been  planned  from  the  opening,  and  was  carried 
without  real  alteration  to  the  close.  Of  the  perfect  honesty 
with  which  Dickens  himself  repelled  such  charges  as  those  to 
which  I  have  adverted,  when  he  wrote  the  preface  to  his  col- 
lected edition,  remarkable  proof  appears  in  the  letter  to  myself 
which  accompanied  the  manuscript  of  his  proposed  first  number. 
No  other  line  of  the  tale  had  at  this  time  been  placed  on  paper. 

When  the  first  chapter  only  was  done,  and  again  when  all  was 
finished  but  eight  slips,  he  had  sent  me  letters  formerly  quoted. 
What  follows  came  with  the  manuscript  of  the  first  four  chapters 
on  the  25  th  of  July.    '  I  will  now  go  on  to  give  you  an  outline  of 

*  my  immediate  intentions  in  reference  to  Dombey.    I  design  to 

*  show  Mr.  D.  with  that  one  idea  of  the  Son  taking  firmer  and 

*  firmer  possession  of  him,  and  swelling  and  bloating  his  pride  to 
MS.^f      <  a  prodigious  extent.    As  the  boy  begins  to  grow  up,  I  shall 

*  show  him  quite  impatient  for  his  getting  on,  and  urging  his 

*  masters  to  set  him  great  tasks,  and  the  like.    But  the  natural 

*  affection  of  the  boy  will  turn  towards  the  despised  sister ;  and  I 

*  purpose  showing  her  learning  all  sorts  of  things,  of  her  own 

*  application  and  determination,  to  assist  him  in  his  lessons  :  and 

*  helping  him  always.    When  the  boy  is  about  ten  years  old  (in 
Design  as  to  '  the  fourth  number),  he  will  be  taken  ill,  and  will  die  ;  and  when 

Paul  and 

sister.  *  he  is  ill,  and  when  he  is  dying,  I  mean  to  make  him  turn  always 
'  for  refuge  to  the  sister  still,  and  keep  the  stern  affection  of  the 

*  father  at  a  distance.    So  Mr.  Dombey — for  all  his  greatness, 

*  and  for  all  his  devotion  to  the  child — will  find  himself  at  arms' 

*  length  from  him  even  then ;  and  will  see  that  his  love  and  con- 

*  fidence  are  all  bestowed  upon  his  sister,  whom  Mr.  Dombey  has 

*  used — and  so  has  the  boy  himself  too,  for  that  matter — as  a  mere 
'  convenience  and  handle  to  him.    The  death  of  the  boy  is  a 

*  death-blow,  of  course,  to  all  the  father's  schemes  and  cherished 

*  hopes ;  and  "  Dombey  and  Son,"  as  Miss  Tox  will  say  at  the 
As  to         *  end  of  the  number,  "  is  a  Daughter  after  all."  .  .  .  From  that 

Dombey  .  .  ,  . 

and  *  time,  I  purpose  changing  his  feelmg  of  mdifference  and  uneasi- 

daughteri  .  . 

ness  towards  his  daughter  mto  a  positive  hatred.    For  he  will 


§11.] 


Dombey  and  Son. 


25 


'  always  remember  how  the  boy  had  his  arm  round  her  neck  Lausann«; 

*  when  he  was  dying,  and  whispered  to  her,  and  would  take  

*  things  only  from  her  hand,  and  never  thought  of  him.  ...  At 

*  the  same  time  I  shall  change  her  feeling  towards  him  for  one  of 

*  a  greater  desire  to  love  him,  and  to  be  loved  by  him ;  engen- 

*  dered  in  her  compassion  for  his  loss,  and  her  love  for  the  dead 

*  boy  whom,  in  his  way,  he  loved  so  well  too.    So  I  mean  to 

*  carry  the  story  on,  through  all  the  branches  and  off-shoots  and  Proposed 

,  course  of 

*  meanderings  that  come  up  ;  and  through  the  decay  and  downfall  '^e  story. 

*  of  the  house,  and  the  bankruptcy  of  Dombey,  and  all  the  rest  of 

*  it ;  when  his  only  staff  and  treasure,  and  his  unknown  Good 

*  Genius  always,  will  be  this  rejected  daughter,  who  will  come  out 
'  better  than  any  son  at  last,  and  whose  love  for  him,  when  dis- 

*  covered  and  understood,  will  be  his  bitterest  reproach.    For  the 

*  struggle  with  himself,  which  goes  on  in  all  such  obstinate 

*  natures,  will  have  ended  then  \  and  the  sense  of  his  injustice, 

*  which  you  may  be  sure  has  never  quitted  him,  will  have  at  last 

*  a  gentler  office  than  that  of  only  making  him  more  harshly 
'  unjust.  ...  I  rely  very  much  on  Susan  Nipper  grown  up, 
'  and  acting  partly  as  Florence's  maid,  and  partly  as  a  kind 

*  of  companion  to  her,  for  a  strong  character  throughout  the 

*  book.    I  also  rely  on  the  Toodles,  and  on  Polly,  who,  like 

*  everybody  else,  will  be  found  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  have  gone 

*  over  to  his  daughter  and  become  attached  to  her.    This  is  what 

*  cooks  call  "  the  stock  of  the  soup."  All  kinds  of  things  will  ,'Stoc^k 
t  be  added  to  it,  of  course.'  Admirable  is  the  illustration  thus  '  s°"p-' 
afforded  of  his  way  of  working,  and  interesting  the  evidence 

it  gives  of  the  feeling  for  his  art  with  which  this  book  was 
begun. 

The  close  of  the  letter  put  an  important  question  affecting 
gravely  a  leading  person  in  the  tale.  ...  *  About  the  boy,  who 
'  appears  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  first  number,  I  think  it  would 

*  be  a  good  thing  to  disappoint  all  the  expectations  that  chapter 

'  seems  to  raise  of  his  happy  connection  with  the  story  and  the  ^^^^^ 

*  heroine,  and  to  show  him  gradually  and  naturally  trailing  away, 

*  from  that  love  of  adventure  and  boyish  light-heartedness,  into 
negligence,  idleness,  dissipation,  dishonesty,  and   ruin.  To 


26 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickem.     [Book  vi. 


Lausanne 
1846. 


Question  of 

Walter's 

fate. 


Decided  in 
his  favour. 


Six  pages 
too  much. 


Omissiorut 
proposed. 


*  show,  in  short,  that  common,  every-day,  miserable  declension  oi 

*  which  we  know  so  much  in  our  ordinary  life ;  to  exhibit  some- 

*  thing  of  the  philosophy  of  it,  in  great  temptations  and  an  easy 
'  nature ;  and  to  show  how  the  good  turns  into  bad,  by  degrees. 

*  If  I  kept  some  little  notion  of  Florence  always  at  the  bottom  of 

*  it,  I  think  it  might  be  made  very  powerful  and  very  useful. 

*  What  do  you  think  ?    Do  you  think  it  may  be  done,  without 

*  making  people  angry  ?    I  could  bring  out  Solomon  Gills  and 

*  Captain  Cuttle  well,  through  such  a  history;  and  I  descry, 

*  an)rway,  an  opportunity  for  good  scenes  between  Captain  Cuttle 
'  and  Miss  Tox.    This  question  of  the  boy  is  very  important. 

*  .  .  .  .  Let  me  hear  all  you  think  about  it.  Hear !  I  wish  I 
'  could.'  .  .  . 

For  reasons  that  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  here,  but  in  which 
Dickens  ultimately  acquiesced,  Walter  was  reserved  for  a  happier 
future ;  and  the  idea  thrown  out  took  modified  shape,  amid  cir- 
cumstances better  suited  to  its  excellent  capabilities,  in  the 
striking  character  of  Richard  Carstone  in  the  tale  oi  Bleak  House, 
But  another  point  had  risen  meanwhile  for  settlement  not  ad- 
mitting of  delay.  In  the  first  enjoyment  of  writing  after  his  long 
rest,  to  which  a  former  letter  has  referred,  he  had  over-written  his 
number  by  nearly  a  fifth ;  and  upon  his  proposal  to  transfer  the 
fourth  chapter  to  his  second  number,  replacing  it  by  another  of 
fewer  pages,  I  had  to  object  that  this  might  damage  his  interest 
at  starting.    Thus  he  wrote  on  the  7  th  of  August  have 

*  received  your  letter  to-day  with  the  greatest  delight,  and  am 

*  overjoyed  to  find  that  you  think  so  well  of  the  number.  I 
*■  thought  well  of  it  myself,  and  that  it  was  a  great  plunge  into  a 

*  story ;  but  I  did  not  know  how  far  I  might  be  stimulated  by  my 
*■  paternal  affection.  .  .  .  What  should  you  say,  for  a  notion  of  the 

*  illustrations,  to  "  Miss  Tox  introduces  the  Party  ?  "  and  "  Mr. 

*  "  Dombey  and  Family  ? "  meaning  Polly  Toodle,  the  baby, 
'  Mr.  Dombey,  and  little  Florence  :  whom  I  think  it  would  be 

well  to  have.    Walter,  his  uncle,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  might 

*  stand  over.    It  is  a  great  question  with  me,  now,  whether  I  had 

*  not  better  take  this  last  chapter  bodily  out,  and  make  it  the  last 

*  chapter  of  the  second  number ;  writing  some  other  new  one  to 


§  I  I.J  Dombey  and  Son,  2J 

*  close  the  first  number.    I  think  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  Lausannh 

1846. 

*  out  six  pages  without  great  pangs.    Do  you  thmk  such  a  pro-  

*  ceeding  as  I  suggest  would  weaken  number  one  very  much  ?  I 

*  wish  you  would  tell  me,  as  soon  as  you  can  after  receiving  this, 

*  what  your  opinion  is  on  the  point.    If  you  thought  it  would 

*  weaken  the  first  number,  beyond  the  counterbalancing  advan- 

*  tage  of  strengthening  the  second,  I  would  cut  down  somehow 

*  or  other,  and  let  it  go.     I  shall  be  anxious  to  hear  your 

*  opinion.    In  the  meanwhile  T  will  go  on  with  the  second,  which 

*  I  have  just  begun.    I  have  not  been  quite  myself  since  we 

*  returned  from  Chamounix,  owing  to  the  great  heat.'  Two  days 
later  :  *  I  have  begun  a  little  chapter  to  end  the  first  number,  and 

*  certainly  think  it  will  be  well  to  keep  the  ten  pages  of  Wally 

*  and  Co.  entire  for  number  two.    But  this  is  still  subject  to  your  New  chap 

•'  •'        ter  wnttea 

*  opinion,  which  I  am  very  anxious  to  know.    I  have  not  been 

*  in  writing  cue  all  the  week ;  but  really  the  weather  has  ren- 

*  dered  it  next  to  impossible  to  work.'    Four  days  later  :  *  I 

*  shall  send  you  with  this  (on  the  chance  of  your  being  favour- 

*  able  to  that  view  of  the  subject)  a  small  chapter  to  close  the 

*  first  number,  in  lieu  of  the  Solomon  Gills  one.    I  have  been 

*  hideously  idle  all  the  week,  and  have  done  nothing  but  this 

*  trifling  interloper ;  but  hope  to  begin  again  on  Monday—  ding 

*  dong.  .  .  .  The  inkstand  is  to  be  cleaned  out  to-night,  and  re- 

*  filled,  preparatory  to  execution.    I  trust  I  may  shed  a  good  deal 

*  of  ink  in  the  next  fortnight.'  Then,  the  day  following,  on  arrival 
of  my  letter,  he  submitted  to  a  hard  necessity.    *  I  received  yours 

*  to-day.    A  decided  facer  to  me  !    I  had  been  counting,  alas  !  Rejecteu. 

*  with  a  miser's  greed,  upon  the  gained  ten  pages.  .  .  .  No  matter. 

*  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  and  strength  is  everything.  The 

*  addition  of  two  lines  to  each  page,  or  something  less, — coupled 

*  with  the  enclosed  cuts,  will  bring  it  all  to  bear  smoothly.  In 

*  case  more  cutting  is  wanted,  I  must  ask  you  to  try  your  hand. 

*  I  shall  agree  to  whatever  you  propose.'    These  cuttings,  abso-  ^^j"*^*^®* 
lutely  necessary  as  they  were,  were  not  without  much  disadvantage  ; 

and  in  the  course  of  them  he  had  to  sacrifice  a  passage  fore- 
shadowing his  final  intention  as  to  Dombey.  It  would  have 
shown,  thus  early,  something  of  the  struggle  with  itself  that  such 


28 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


Lausannb 

1846. 


Anxiety  as 
to  face  of 
his  hero. 


Dickens 
and  his 
illus- 
trators. 


:  pride  must  always  go  through ;  and  I  think  it  worth  preserving  in 
a  note.* 

Several  letters  now  expressed  his  anxiety  about  the  illustrations. 
A  nervous  dread  of  caricature  in  the  face  of  his  merchant-hero, 
had  led  him  to  indicate  by  a  living  person  the  type  of  city- 
gentleman  he  would  have  had  the  artist  select ;  and  this  is  all 
he  meant  by  his  reiterated  urgent  request,  '  I  do  wish  he  could 
*  get  a  glimpse  of  A,  for  he  is  the  very  Dombey.'  But  as  the 
ghmpse  of  A  was  not  to  be  had,  it  was  resolved  to  send  for 
selection  by  himself  glimpses  of  other  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
actual  heads  as  well  as  fanciful  ones ;  and  the  sheetful  I  sent  out, 
which  he  returned  when  the  choice  was  made,  I  here  reproduce 
in  facsimile.  In  itself  amusing,  it  has  now  the  important  use  of 
showing,  once  for  all,  in  regard  to  Dickens's  intercourse  with  his 
artists,  that  they  certainly  had  not  an  easy  time  with  him  \  that, 
even  beyond  what  is  ordinary  between  author  and  illustrator,  his 
requirements  were  exacting;  that  he  was  apt,  as  he  has  said 
himself,  to  build  up  temples  in  his  mind  not  always  makeable 
with  hands  ;  that  in  the  results  he  had  rarely  anything  but  disap- 
pointment ;  and  that  of  all  notions  to  connect  with  him  the  most 
preposterous  would  be  that  which  directly  reversed  these  relations, 


Passage 
Mnitted. 


*  *  He  had  already  laid  his  hand 
'  upon  the  bell-rope  to  convey  his 
'  usual  summons  to  Richards,  when 
'  his  eye  fell  upon  a  writing-desk,  be- 
'  longing  to  his  deceased  wife,  which 
'  had  been  taken,  among  other  things, 
'  from  a  cabinet  in  her  chamber.  It 

*  was  not  the  first  time  that  his  eye  had 

*  lighted  on  it.  He  carried  the  key  in 
'  his  pocket ;  and  he  brought  it  to  his 

*  table  and  opened  it  now — having 

*  previously  locked  the  room  door — 

*  with  a  well  accustomed  hand. 

•  From  beneath  a  heap  of  torn  and 

*  cancelled  scraps  of  paper,  he  took 

*  one  letter  that  remained  entire.  In- 

*  voluntarily  holding  his  breath  as  he 
'  opened  this  document,  and  'bating  in 

*  the  stealthy  action  something  of  his 
arrogant  demeanour,  he  sat  down, 
resting  his  head  upon  one  hand,  and 


*  read  it  through. 

*  He  read  it  slowly  and  attentively, 
'  and  with  a  nice  particularity  to  every 

*  syllable.    Otherwise  than  as  his  great 

*  deliberation  seemed  unnatural,  and 

*  perhaps  the  result  of  an  effort  equally 

*  great,  he  allowed  no  sign  of  emotion 

*  to  escape  him.    When  he  had  read 

*  it  through,  he  folded  and  refolded  it 

*  slowly  several  times,  and  tore  it  care- 
'  fully  into  fragments.    Checking  his 

*  hand  in  the  act  of  throwing  these 

*  away,  he  put  them  in  his  pocket,  as 

*  if  unwilling  to  trust  them  even  to  the 

*  chances  of  being  reunited  and  deci- 

*  phered  ;  and  instead  of  ringing,  as 

*  usual,  for  Uttle  Paul,  he  sat  solitary 

*  all  the  evening  in  his  cheerless  room.' 
From  the  original  MS.  of  Dombey  and 
Son. 


§11.] 


Dombey  and  Son, 


31 


and  depicted  him  as  receiving  from  any  artist  the  inspiration  he  Lausannb: 

1846. 

was  always  vainly  striving  to  give.    An  assertion  of  this  kind  was  • 

contradicted  in  my  first  volume ;  *  but  it  has  since  been  repeated 
so  explicitly,  that  to  prevent  any  possible  misconstruction  from 
a  silence  I  would  fain  have  persisted  in,  the  distasteful  subject  is 
again  reluctantly  introduced. 

It  originated  with  a  hterary  friend  of  the  excellent  artist  by  sniy  story 

,  repeated. 

whom  Oliver  Twist  was  illustrated  from  month  to  month,  during 
the  earlier  part  of  its  monthly  issue.  This  gentleman  stated,  in 
a  paper  written  and  published  in  America,  that  Mr.  Cruikshank, 
by  executing  the  plates  before  opportunity  was  afforded  him  of 
seeing  the  letter  press,  had  suggested  to  the  writer  the  finest 
effects  in  his  story ;  and  to  this,  opposing  my  clear  recollection 
of  all  the  time  the  tale  was  in  progress,  it  became  my  duty  to  say 
that  within  my  own  personal  knowledge  the  alleged  fact  was  not 
true.    *  Dickens,'  the  artist  is  reported  as  saying  to  his  admirer, 

*  ferreted  out  that  bundle  of  drawings,  and  when  he  came  to  the 

*  one  which  represents  Fagin  in  the  cell,  he  silently  studied  it  for 

*  half  an  hour,  and  told  me  he  was  tempted  to  change  the  whole 

*  plot  of  his  story.  ...  I  consented  to  let  him  write  up  to  my 

*  designs ;  and  that  was  the  way  in  which  Fagin,  Sikes,  and 

*  Nancy  were  created.'    Happily  1  was  able  to  add  the  complete 
refutation  of  this  folly  by  producing  a  letter  of  Dickens  written  at  Refutation 
the  time,  which  proved  incontestably  that  the  closing  illustrations,  °^ 
including  the  two  specially  named  in  support  of  the  preposterous 
charge,  Sikes  and  his  Dog,  and  Fagin  in  his  Cell,  had  not  even 

been  seen  by  Dickens  until  his  finished  book  was  on  the  eve  of 
appearance.  As  however  the  distinguished  artist,  notwithstanding 
the  refreshment  of  his  memory  by  this  letter,  has  permitted  himself 
again  to  endorse  the  statement  of  his  friend,  I  can  only  again  why  the 

...  •        ,  charge  is 

print,  on  the  same  page  which  contains  the  strange  language  used  again 

...  00  noticed. 

by  him,  the  words  with  which  Dickens  himself  repels  its  impu- 
tation on  his  memory.  To  some  it  may  be  more  satisfactory  if 
I  print  the  letter  in  fac-simile ;  and  so  leave  for  ever  a  charge  in 

*  Ante,\.  It  is  hardly  neces-     volumes,  with  an  interval  between  pub- 

sary  to  remind  the  reader  that  this  lication  of  each,  the  first  in  187 1,  the 
work  appeared  originally  in  three    second  in  1872,  and  the  third  in  1873. 


32 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


LAfSANWH 
1846. 


Hints  for 
artist. 


A  master- 
piece of  his 
writing. 


Picture  of 
him  at 
work. 


itself  so  incredible  that  nothing  would  have  justified  farther 
allusion  to  it  but  the  knowledge  of  my  friend's  old  and  true 
regard  for  Mr.  Cruikshank,  of  which  evidence  will  shortly  appear, 
and  my  own  respect  for  an  original  genius  well  able  to  subsist  of 
itself  without  taking  what  belongs  to  others. 

Resuming  the  Dombey  letters  I  find  him  on  the  30th  of  August 
in  better  heart  about  his  illustrator.    *  I  shall  gladly  acquiesce  in 

*  whatever  more  changes  or  omissions  you  propose.  Browne 

*  seems  to  be  getting  on  well.  .  .  .  He  will  have  a  good  subject 

*  in  Paul's  christening.    Mr.  Chick  is  like  D,  if  you'll  mention 

*  that  when  you  think  of  it    The  little  chapter  of  Miss  Tox  and 

*  the  Major,  which  you  alas  !  (but  quite  wisely)  rejected  from  the 
'■  first  number,  I  have  altered  for  the  last  of  the  second.    I  have 

*  not  quite  finished  the  middle  chapter  yet — having,  I  should  say, 

*  three  good  days'  work  to  do  at  it ;  but  I  hope  it  will  be  all  a 
'  worthy  successor  to  number  one.  I  will  send  it  as  soon  as 
'  finished.'  Then,  a  little  later :  *  Browne  is  certainly  interesting 
'  himself,  and  taking  pains.  I  think  the  cover  very  good  :  perhaps 

*  with  a  Httle  too  much  in  it,  but  that  is  an  ungrateful  objection.' 
The  second  week  of  September  brought  me  the  finished  MS.  of 
number  two ;  and  his  letter  of  the  3rd  of  October,  noticing 
objections  taken  to  it,  gives  additional  touches  to  this  picture  of 
him  while  ai  work.  The  matter  on  which  he  is  engaged  is  one 
of  his  masterpieces.  There  is  nothing  in  all  his  writings  more 
perfect,  for  what  it  shows  of  his  best  qualities,  than  the  life  and 
death  of  Paul  Dombey.  The  comedy  is  admirable ;  nothing 
strained,  everything  hearty  and  wholesome  in  the  laughter  and 
fun ;  all  who  contribute  to  the  mirth,  Doctor  Blimber  and  his 
pupils,  Mr.  Toots,  the  Chicks  and  the  Toodles,  Miss  Tox  and 
the  Major,  Paul  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  up  to  his  highest  mark  j  and 
the  serious  scenes  never  falling  short  of  it,  from  the  death  of 
Paul's  mother  in  the  first  number,  to  that  of  Paul  himself  in  the 
fifth,  which,  as  the  author  of  the  Two  Old  Men's  Tales  with  hardly 
exaggeration  said,  threw  a  whole  nation  into  mourning.  But 
see  how  eagerly  this  fine  writer  takes  every  suggestion,  how  little 
of  self-esteem  and  self-sufficiency  there  is,  with  what  a  conscious- 
ness ot  the  tendency  of  his  humour  to  exuberance  he  surrenders 


§  II.]  Dombey  mid  Son. 


33 


Dickens's 
words  at 
the  time  : 
1838. 


'^<^    'JuJert  (c^Tf^ 
MJoV^A     ffi^  ^     Ihnr^  <>&<u^  ^.Al^ 


^  C{yPV^    ^^^J^  ^^fc^  ^.^2^ 


34 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book 


*  '  I  will  now  explain  that  "  Oliver 

*  "  Twist,"  the  ,  the   ,  etc. ' 

(naming  books  by  another  writer), 
'  were  produced  in  an  entirely  different 
'  manner  from  what  would  be  con- 
Mr  Cruik-    '  sidered  as  the  usual  course  ;  for  /,  the 
shank's         '  Artist,  suggested  to  the  Authors  of 
?hirTy-four     '  tilose  works  the  original  idea,  or  sub- 
years  after     » jgct,  for  them  to  write  out— fumish- 
'  ing,  at  the  same  time,  the  principal 
characters  and  the  scenes.    And  then, 


'  as  the  tale  had  to  be  produced  in 
'  monthly  parts,  the  Writer,  ox  Author, 
'  and  the  Artist,  had  every  month  to 
'  arrange  and  settle  what  scenes,  or 
*  subjects,  and  characters  were  to  be 
'  introduced,  and  the  Author  had  to 
'  weave  in  such  scenes  as  I  wished  to 
'  represent.'— 73^^  Artist  and  the  Au- 
thor, by  George  Cruikshank,  p.  IS- 
(Bell&Daldy:  1872.)  The  italics  are 
Mr.  Cruikshank's  own. 


Dombey  and  Son. 


35 


what  is  needful  to  restrain  it,  and  of  what  small  account  to  him  Lausannk  : 

'  1040. 

is  any  special  piece  of  work  in  his  care  and  his  considerateness 
for  the  general  design.  I  think  of  Ben  Jonson's  experience  of 
the  greatest  of  all  writers.    *  He  was  indeed  honest,  and  of  an  a  saying 

^  '  .         of  Ben 

*  open  and  free  nature  ;  had  an  excellent  phantasy,  brave  notions  jonson's. 

*  and  gentle  expressions ;  wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility, 

*  that  sometimes  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped.'  Who 
it  was  that  stopped  him,  and  the  ease  of  doing  it,  no  one  will 
doubt.  Whether  he,  as  well  as  the  writer  of  later  time,  might 
not  with  more  advantage  have  been  left  alone,  is  the  only 
question. 

Thus  ran  the  letter  of  the  3rd  of  October :  *  Miss  Tox's  colony 

*  I  will  smash.    Walter's  allusion  to  Carker  (would  you  take  it  all 

*  out  ?)  shall  be  dele'd.    Ot  course,  you  understand  the  man  ?  I 

*  turned  that  speech  over  in  my  mind ;  but  I  thought  it  natural  How  ob- 

*  that  a  boy  should  run  on,  with  such  a  subject,  under  the  CirCUm-  are  taken, 

*  stances :  having  the  matter  so  presented  to  him.  .  .  I  thought 

*  of  the  possibility  of  malice  on  christening  points  of  faith,  and 

*  put  the  drag  on  as  I  wrote.    Where  would  you  make  the 

*  insertion,  and  to  what  effect  ?    TAa^  shall  be  done  too.    I  want 

*  you  to  think  the  number  sufficiently  good  stoutly  to  back  up 

*  the  first.    It  occurs  to  me — might  not  your  doubt  about  the 

*  christening  be  a  reason  for  not  making  the  ceremony  the  subject 

*  of  an  illustration  ?    Just  turn  this  over.    Again  :  if  I  could  do 

*  it  (I  shall  have  leisure  to  consider  the  possibility  before  I  begin), 

*  do  you  think  it  would  be  advisable  to  make  number  three  a 

*  kind  of  halfway  house  between  Paul's  infancy,  and  his  being 

*  eight  or  nine  years  old  ? — In  that  case  I  should  probably  not  should 

*  kill  him  until  the  fifth  number.    Do  you  think  the  people  so  life  be^pJl!-' 

*  likely  to  be  pleased  with  Florence,  and  Walter,  as  to  relish  ' 

*  another  number  of  them  at  their  present  age  ?  Otherwise, 

*  Walter  will  bf*  two  or  three  and  twenty,  straightway.    I  wish  you 

*  would  think  of  this.  .  .  I  am  sure  you  are  right  about  the 

*  christening.    It  shall  be  artfully  and  easily  amended.  .  .  Eh  ?  ' 

Meanwhile,  two  days  before  this  letter,  his  first  number  had 
been  launched  with  a  sale  that  transcended  his  hopes,  and 
brought  b&ck  JVic^lelfy  days.    'The  Dombey  sale  is  brilliant!' 

D  2 


36  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 

Lausanne  :  he  wrotc  to  me  on  the  I  ith.    *  I  had  put  before  me  thirty  thousand 
1846. 

--■  '  as  the  limit  of  the  most  extreme  success,  saying  that  if  we  should 

reach  that,  I  should  be  more  than  satisfied  and  more  than  happy  ; 

*  you  will  judge  how  happy  I  am  !    I  read  the  second  number 

*  here  last  night  to  the  most  prodigious  and  uproarious  delight  of 
A  reading  '  the  circlc.  I  never  saw  or  heard  people  laugh  so.  You  will 
s°econd  No.  *  allow  me  to  obscrve  that  my  reading  of  the  Major  has  merit.' 

What  a  valley  of  the  shadow  he  had  just  been  passing,  in  his 
journey  through  his  Christmas  book,  has  before  been  told ;  but 
always,  and  with  only  too  much  eagerness,  he  sprang  up  under 
pressure,  *A  week  of  perfect  idleness,'  he  wrote  to  me  on  the 
26th,  'has  brought  me  round  again — idleness  so  rusting  and 
'  devouring,  so  complete  and  unbroken,  that  I  am  quite  glad  to 

*  write  the  heading  of  the  first  chapter  of  number  three  to-day. 
'  I  shall  be  slow  at  first,  I  fear,  in  consequence  of  that  change  of 
'  the  plan.  But  I  allow  myself  nearly  three  weeks  for  the 
'  number ;  designing,  at  present,  to  start  for  Paris  on  the  1 6th  of 

*  November.  Full  particulars  in  future  bills.  Just  going  to  bed. 
'  I  think  I  can  make  a  good  effect,  on  the  after  story,  of  the 

A  number  *  feeling  Created  by  the  additional  number  before  Paul's  death.'  .  . 
to  Paul's^    Five  more  days  confirmed  him  in  this  hope.    *  I  am  at  work  at 

*  Dombey  with  good  speed,  thank  God.    All  well  here.  Country 

*  stupendously  beautiful.    Mountains  covered  with  snow.  Rich, 

*  crisp  weather.'  There  was  one  drawback.  The  second  number 
had  gone  out  to  him,  and  the  illustrations  he  found  to  be  so 

*  dreadfully  bad '  that  they  made  him  *  curl  his  legs  up.'  They 
made  him  also  more  than  usually  anxious  in  regard  to  a  special 
illustration  on  which  he  set  much  store,  for  the  part  he  had  in 
hand. 

The  first  chapter  of  it  was  sent  me  only  four  days  later  (nearly 
half  the  entire  part,  so  freely  his  fancy  was  now  flowing  and  over- 
flowing), with  intimation  for  the  artist :  '  The  best  subject  for 

*  Browne  will  be  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's ;  and  if  he  liked  to  do  a  quiet 
*■  odd  thing,  Paul,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  Cat,  by  the  fire,  would 

*  be  very  good  for  the  story.    I  earnestly  hope  he  will  think  it 

*  worth  a  little  extra  care.    The  second  subject,  in  case  he 

*  shouldn't  take  a  second  from  that  same  chapter,  I  will  shortly 


Dombey  and  Son. 


37 


*  describe  as  soon  as  I  have  it  clearly  (to-morrow  or  next  day),  Laosakmb: 

1846. 

*  and  send  it  to  you  by  post*    The  result  was  not  satisfactory ;   ~ 

but  as  the  artist  more  than  redeemed  it  in  the  later  course  of  the  an  illus- 
tration. 

tale,  and  the  present  disappointment  was  mainly  the  incentive  to 
that  better  success,  the  mention  of  the  failure  here  will  be  excused 
for  what  it  illustrates  of  Dickens  himself    *  I  am  really  distressed 

*  by  the  illustration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  Paul.    It  is  so  frightfully 

*  and  wildly  wide  of  the  mark.    Good  Heaven !  in  the  commonest 

*  and  most  literal  construction  of  the  text,  it  is  all  wrong.  She  is 
'  described  as  an  old  lady,  and  Paul's  "  miniature  arm-chair  "  is 

*  mentioned  more  than  once.    He  ought  to  be  sitting  in  a  little  what  it 

.  should 

*  arm-chair  down  in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  starmg  up  at  her.  have  been. 

*  I  can't  say  what  pain  and  vexation  it  is  to  be  so  utterly  mis- 

*  represented.    I  would  cheerfully  have  given  a  hundred  pounds 

*  to  have  kept  this  illustration  out  of  the  book.    He  never  could 

*  have  got  that  idea  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  if  he  had  attended  to  the 

*  text.    Indeed  I  think  he  does  better  without  the  text  \  for  then 

*  the  notion  is  made  easy  to  him  in  short  description,  and  he  can't 

*  help  taking  it  in.' 

He  felt  the  disappointment  more  keenly,  because  the  con- 
ception of  the  grim  old  boarding-house  keeper  had  taken  back  his  The  Mrs. 
thoughts  to  the  miseries  of  his  own  child-life,  and  made  her,  as  her  Ss^chUd-^ 

.  .  .  hood. 

prototype  in  verity  was,  a  part  of  the  terrible  reality.*  I  had 
forgotten,  until  I  again  read  this  letter,  that  he  thus  early  pro- 
posed to  tell  me  that  story  of  his  boyish  sufferings  which  a 
question  from  myself,  of  some  months  later  date,  so  fully  elicited. 
He  was  now  hastening  on  with  the  close  of  his  third  number,  to 
be  ready  for  departure  to  Paris  (4th  of  November).    *  ...  I 

*  hope  to  finish  the  number  by  next  Tuesday  or  Wednesday.  It 

*  is  hard  writing  under  these  bird-of-passage  circumstances,  but 
'  I  have  no  reason  to  complain,  God  knows,  having  come  to  no 

*  knot  yet.  ...  I  hope  you  will  like  Mrs.  Pipchin's  establishment. 

*  1  take,  from  his  paper  of  notes  for  '  House  at  the  sea-side.    Mrs.  Wry- 

the  number,  the  various  names,  begin-  *  chin.    Mrs.  Tipchin.    Mrs.  Alchin. 

ning  with  that  of  her  real  prototype,  '  Mrs.    Somching.      Mrs.  Pipchin.* 

out  of  which  the  name  selected  came  Ante^  i.  28, 
to  him  at  last.    '  Mrs.  Roylance  .  . 


38 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Lausanne:  '  It  is  from  the  life,  and  I  was  there — I  don't  suppose  I  was 

*  eight  years  old  ;  but  I  remember  it  all  as  well,  and  certainly 

*  understood  it  as  well,  as  I  do  now.  We  should  be  devilish 
'  sharp  in  what  we  do  to  children.    I  thought  of  that  passage  in 

thought  of  *'  small  life,  at  Geneva.  Shall  I  leave  you  my  life  in  MS  when 
biog^raphy    *  ^      ^    There  are  some  things  in  it  that  would  touch  you  very 

*  much,  and  that  might  go  on  the  same  shelf  with  the  first  volume 

*  of  Holcroft's.' 

On  the  Monday  week  after  that  was  written  he  left  Lausanne 
for  Paris,  and  my  first  letter  to  him  there  was  to  say  that  he  had 
Three  pages  Overwritten  his  number  by  three  pages.    *  I  have  taken  out  about 

too  much.  ^  ° 

*  two  pages  and  a  half,'  he  wrote  by  return  from  the  hotel 
Brighton,  *and  the  rest  I  must  ask  you  to  take  out  with  the 

*  assurance  that  you  will  satisfy  me  in  whatever  you  do.  The 

*  sale,  prodigious  indeed !  I  am  very  thankful.'  Next  day  he 
wrote  as  to  Walter.    *  I  see  it  will  be  best  as  you  advise,  to  give 

*  that  idea  up ;  and  indeed  I  don't  feel  it  would  be  reasonable  to 

*  carry  it  out  now.    I  am  far  from  sure  it  could  be  wholesomely 
Ante,  25.     '  done,  after  the  interest  he  has  acquired.    But  when  I  have 

*  disposed  of  Paul  (poor  boy !)  I  will  consider  the  subject  farther.' 
The  subject  was  never  resumed.  He  was  at  the  opening  of  his 
admirable  fourth  part,  when,  on  the  6th  of  December,  he  wrote 
from  the  Rue  de  Courcelles  :  *  Here  am  I,  writing  letters,  and 

*  delivering  opinions,  politico-economical  and  otherwise,  as  if 

*  there  were  no  undone  number,  and  no  undone  Dick !  Well. 

*  Cosi  va  il  mondo  (God  bless  me  !    Italian  !    I  beg  your  pardon) 

*  — and  one  must  keep  one's  spirits  up,  if  possible,  even  under 

*  Dombey  pressure.    Paul,  I  shall  slaughter  at  the  end  of  number 
Biimber's     '  school  ought  to  bc  pretty  good,  but  I  haven't  been 

*  able  to  dash  at  it  freely,  yet    However,  I  have  avoided  un- 

*  necessary  dialogue  so  far,  to  avoid  overwriting ;  and  all  I  Iiave 

*  written  is  point.* 

And  so,  in  ^  point,'  it  went  to  the  close  ;  the  rich  humour  of  its 
picture  of  Doctor  Blimber  and  his  pupils,  alternating  with  the 
quaint  pathos  of  its  picture  of  little  Paul ;  the  first  a  good-natured 
exposure  of  the  forcing-system  and  its  fruits,  as  useful  as  the 
sterner  revelation  in  Nickleby  of  the  atrocities  of  Mr.  Squeers,  and 


§  n.] 


Dombey  and  Son. 


39 


the  last  even  less  attractive  for  the  sweet  sadness  of  its  fore-  p^ri/: 

1840. 

shadowing  of  a  child's  death,  than  for  those  images  of  a  vague,  

strange  thoughtfulness,  of  a  shrewd  unconscious  intellect,  of 
mysterious  small  philosophies  and  questionings,  by  which  the 
young  old-fashioned  little  creature  has  a  glamour  thrown  over  him 
as  he  is  passing  away.  It  was  wonderfully  original,  this  treatment 
of  the  part  that  thus  preceded  the  close  of  Paul's  little  life ;  and 
of  which  the  first  conception,  as  I  have  shown,  was  an  after- 
thought. It  took  the  death  itself  out  of  the  region  of  pathetic 
commonplaces,  and  gave  it  the  proper  relation  to  the  sorrow  of  Paul  and 
the  little  sister  that  survives  it.  It  is  a  fairy  vision  to  a  piece  of 
actual  suffering ;  a  sorrow  with  heaven's  hues  upon  it,  to  a  sorrow 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  earth. 

The  number  had  been  finished,  he  had  made  his  visit  to  London, 
and  was  again  in  the  Rue  de  Courcelles,  when  on  Christmas  day 
he  sent  me  its  hearty  old  wishes,  and  a  letter  of  Jeffre/s  on  his 
new  story  of  which  the  first  and  second  part  had  reached  him. 

*  Many  merry  Christmases,  many  happy  new  years,  unbroken 

*  friendship,  great  accumulation  of  cheerful  recollections,  affection 

*  on  earth,  and  Heaven  at  last  !  ...  Is  it  not  a  strange  example 

*  of  the  hazard  of  writing  in  parts,  that  a  man  like  Jeffrey  Jeffrey's 

*  should  form  his  notion  of  Dombey  and  Miss  Tox  on  three 

*  months'  knowledge  ?    I  have  asked  him  the  same  question,  and 

*  advised  him  to  keep  his  eye  on  both  of  them  as  time  rolls  on.* 


*  Some  passages  may  be  subjoined 
from  the  letter,  as  it  does  not  appear 
among  those  printed  by  Lord  Cock- 
bum.    *  Edinburgh,  i^th  December^ 

*  '46.    My  dear,  dear  Dickens  ! — and 

*  dearer  every  day,  as  you  every  day 
'  give  me  more  pleasure  and  do  me 

*  more  good  !    You  do  not  wonder  at 

*  this  style  ?  for  you  know  that  I  have 

*  been  in  love  with  you^  ever  since 

*  Nelly  !  and  I  do  not  care  now  who 
'  knows  it.    .    .    .    The  Dombeys, 

*  my  dear  D.  1  how  can  I  thank  you 

*  enough  for  them  I    The  truth,  and 

*  the  delicacy,  and  the  softness  and 

*  depth  of  the  pathos  in  that  opening 


*  death-scene,  could  only  come  from 

*  one  hand ;   and  the  exquisite  taste 

*  which  spares  all  details,  and  breaks 

*  off  just  when  the  effect  is  at  its  height» 

*  is  wholly  yours.    But  it  is  Florence  Jeffrey's 

*  on  whom  my  hopes  chiefly  repose ;  [he^tafe  ' 

*  and  in  her  I  see  the  promise  of  ano- 

*  ther  Nelly  !  though  reserved,  I  hope, 

*  for  a  happier  fate,  and  destined  to  let 

*  us  see  what  a  grown-up  female  angel 

*  is  like.    I  expect  great  things,  too, 

*  from  Walter,  who  begins  charmingly, 

*  and  will  be  still  better  I  fancy  than 

*  young  Nickleby,  to  whom  as  yet  he 
'  bears  most  resemblance.      I  have 

*  good  hopes  too  of  Susan  Nipper,  who 


40 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  VI. 


Paris  : 
1847. 


Beginning 
fifth  No. 


What  he 
will  do 
with  it. 


A  damper 
to  the 
spirits. 


*  I  do  not  at  heart,  however,  lay  much  real  stress  on  his  opinion, 

*  though  one  is  naturally  proud  of  awakening  such  sincere  interest 
'  in  the  breast  of  an  old  man  who  has  so  long  worn  the  blue  and 

*  yellow  ...  He  certainly  did  some  service  in  his  old  criticisms, 

*  especially  to  Crabbe.    And  though  I  don't  think  so  highly  of 

*  Crabbe  as  I  once  did  (feeling  a  dreary  want  of  fancy  in  his 
'  poems),  I  think  he  deserved  the  painstaking  and  conscientious 

*  tracking  with  which  Jeffrey  followed  him'  ...  Six  days  later  he 
described  himself  sitting  down  to  the  performance  of  one  of  his 
greatest  achievements,  his  number  five,  *  most  abominably  dull  and 

*  stupid.    I  have  only  written  a  slip,  but  I  hope  to  get  to  work  in 

*  strong  earnest  to-morrow.  It  occurred  to  me  on  special  re- 
'  flection,  that  the  first  chapter  should  be  with  Paul  and  Florence, 
'  and  that  it  should  leave  a  pleasant  impression  of  the  little  fellow 
'  being  happy,  before  the  reader  is  called  upon  to  see  him  die.  I 
'  mean  to  have  a  genteel  breaking-up  at  Doctor  Blimber's  there- 

*  fore,  for  the  Midsummer  vacation ;  and  to  show  him  in  a  little 

*  quiet  light  (now  dawning  through  the  chinks  of  my  mind),  which 

*  I  hope  will  create  an  agreeable  impression.'  Then,  two  days 
later  :  ' .  .  I  am  working  very  slowly.    You  will  see  in  the  first 

*  two  or  three  lines  of  the  enclosed  first  subject,  with  what  idea  I 
'  am  ploughing  along.    It  is  difficult ;  but  a  new  way  of  doing  it, 

*  it  strikes  me,  and  likely  to  be  pretty.' 

And  then,  after  three  days  more,  came  something  of  a  damper 
to  his  spirits,  as  he  thus  toiled  along.  He  saw  public  allusion 
made  to  a  review  that  had  appeared  in  the  Titnes  of  his  Christmas 
book,  and  it  momentarily  touched  what  he  too  truly  called  his 
morbid  susceptibility  to  exasperation.     *  I  see  that  the  "  good 

*  "  old  Times"  are  again  at  issue  with  the  inimitable  B.  Another 


I  think  has  great  capabilities,  and 
whom  I  trust  you  do  not  mean  to 
drop.  Dombey  is  rather  too  hateful, 
and  strikes  me  as  a  mitigated  Jonas, 
without  his  brutal  coarseness  and 
rufifian  ferocity.  I  am  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  what  you  mean  to  make 
of  Paul,  but  shall  watch  his  develop- 
ment with  interest.  About  Miss 
Tox,  and  her  Major,  and  the  Chicks, 


*  perhaps  I  do  not  care  enough.  But 
'  you  know  I  always  grudge  the  ex 

*  quisite  painting  you  waste  on  such 

*  portraits.  I  love  the  Captain,  tho', 
'  and  his  hook,  as  much  as  you  can 

*  wish  ;  and  look  forward  to  the  future 

*  appearances  of  Carker  Junior,  with 

*  expectations  which  I  know  will  not 

*  be  disappointed.  .  .  ,* 


Dombey  and  Son- 


41 


*  touch  of  a  blunt  razor  on  B.'s  nervous  system. — Friday  morning,  Paris: 

1847. 

*  Inimitable  very  mouldy  and  dull.     Hardly  able  to  work.  

*  Dreamed  of  Tiineses  all  night.    Disposed  to  go  to  New  Zealand 

*  and  start  a  magazine.'  But  soon  he  sprang  up,  as  usual,  more 
erect  for  the  moment's  pressure  j  and  after  not  many  days  I  heard 
that  the  number  was  as  good  as  done.  His  letter  was  very  brief, 
and  told  me  that  he  had  worked  so  hard  the  day  before  (Tuesday, 
12  th  of  January),  and  so  incessantly,  night  as  well  as  morning,  that 
he  had  breakfasted  and  lain  in  bed  till  midday.    *  I  hope  I  have 

'  been  very  successful.'    There  was  but  one  small  chapter  more  to  Close  of 

.  ...  Paul's  life. 

write,  in  which  he  and  his  little  friend  were  to  part  company  for 
ever ;  and  the  greater  part  of  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  it  was 
written,  Thursday  the  14th,  he  was  wandering  desolate  and  sad 
about  the  streets  of  Paris.  I  arrived  there  the  following  morning 
on  my  visit ;  and  as  I  alighted  from  the  malle-poste,  a  little  before 
eight  o'clock,  I  found  him  waiting  for  me  at  the  gate  of  the  post- 
office  bureau. 

I  left  him  on  the  2nd  of  February  with  his  writing-table  in 
readiness  for  number  six;  but  on  the  4th,  enclosing  me  subjects 
for  illustration,  he  told  me  he  was  '  not  under  weigh  yet.  Can't 

*  begin.'  Then,  on  the  7th,  his  birthday,  he  wrote  to  me  he  should 
be  late.  *  Could  not  begin  before  Thursday  last,  and  find  it  very 
'  difficult  indeed  to  fall  into  the  new  vein  of  the  story.  I  see  no 
'  hope  of  finishing  before  the  i6th  at  the  earliest,  in  which  case 

*  the  steam  will  have  to  be  put  on  for  this  short  month.    But  it 

*  can't  be  helped.    Perhaps  I  shall  get  a  rush  of  inspiration.  .  .  . 

*  I  will  send  the  chapters  as  I  write  them,  and  you  must  not  wait, 

*  of  course,  for  me  to  read  the  end  in  type.   To  transfer  to  Florence,  Difficui- 

*  instantly,  all  the  previous  interest,  is  what  I  am  aiming  at.    For  No.  Six. 

*  that,  all  sorts  of  other  points  must  be  thrown  aside  in  this 
'  number.  .  .  .  We  are  going  to  dine  again  at  the  Embassy  to- 

*  day — with  a  very  ill  will  on  my  part.    All  well.    I  hope  when 

*  I  write  next  I  shall  report  myself  in  better  cue.  ...  I  have  had 

*  a  tremendous  outpouring  from  Jeffrey  about  the  last  part,  which 

*  he  thinks  the  best  thing  past,  present,  or  to  come.'  *  Three  more 

♦ 'Edinburgh,  3ij/ya««arj/,  1847,     *  No.  5  you  have  now  given  us  1  I 

*  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  Dickens  !  what  a     *  have  so  cried  and  sobbed  over  it  last 


42 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VL 


Paris  :    days  and  I  had  the  MS.  of  the  completed  chapter,  nearly  half  the 
1847. 

 number  (in  which  as  printed  it  stands  second,  the  small  middle 

chapter  having  been  transposed  to  its  place).  '  I  have  taken 
'  the  most  prodigious  pains  with  it;  the  difficulty,  after  Paul's 
'  death  being  very  great.  May  you  like  it !  My  head  aches  over 
'  it  now  (I  write  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning),  and  I  am  strange 

Thoughts    *  to  it  ..  I  think  I  shall  manage  Dombe/s  second  wife  (intro- 

*  duced  by  the  Major),  and  the  beginning  of  that  business  in  his 
'  present  state  of  mind,  very  naturally  and  well  .  .  .  Paul's  death 

*  has  amazed  Paris.    All  sorts  of  people  are  open-mouthed  with 

*  admiration.  .  .  .  When  I  have  done,  I'll  write  you  such  a 
'  letter !    Don't  cut  me  short  in  your  letters  just  now,  because 

*  I'm  working  hard.  .  .  /'II  make  up.  .  .  Snow — snow — snow — a 

*  foot  thick.'  The  day  after  this,  came  the  brief  chapter  which 
was  printed  as  the  first :  and  then,  on  the  i6th,  which  he  had 
fixed  as  his  limit  for  completion,  the  close  reached  me  ;  but  I  had 
meanwhile  sent  him  out  so  much  of  the  proof  as  convinced  him 

Pj^ses  that  he  had  underwritten  his  number  by  at  least  two  pages,  and 
determined  him  to  come  to  London.  The  incident  has  been 
told  which  soon  after  closed  his  residence  abroad,  and  what 
remained  of  his  story  was  written  in  England. 
London.  I  shall  not  farther  dwell  upon  it  in  any  detail.  It  extended 
over  the  whole  of  the  year ;  and  the  interest  and  passion  of  it, 
when  both  became  centred  in  Florence  and  in  Edith  Dombey, 
took  stronger  hold  of  him  than  any  of  his  previous  writings, 
excepting  only  the  close  of  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop.  Jeffrey  com- 
pared Florence  to  Little  Nell,  but  the  differences  from  the  outset 

'  consummation  !   Every  trait  so  true, 

*  and  so  touching — and  yet  lightened 

*  by  the  fearless  innocence  which  goes 
^  playfulb'  to  the  brink  of  the  grave, 

*  and  that  pure  affection  which  bears 
'  the  unstained  spirit,  on  its  soft  and 

*  lambent  flash,  at  once  to  its  source 

*  in  eternity.'  ...  In  the  same  letter 
he  told  him  of  his  having  been  reading 
the  Battle  of  Life  again,  charmed 
with  its  sweet  writing  and  generous 
sentiments. 


Jeffrey  on  '  ^^^S^t,  and  again  this  morning  ;  and 
Paul's  *  felt  my  heart  purified  by  those  tears, 

death.  ^       blessed  and  loved  you  for  making 

*  me  shed  them  ;  and  I  never  can  bless 

*  and  love  you  enough.  Since  the  di- 
'  vine  Nelly  was  found  dead  on  her 

*  humble  couch,  beneath  the  snow  and 

*  the  ivy,  there  has  been  nothing  like 
'  the  actual  dying  of  that  sweet  Paul, 

*  in  the  summer  sunshine  of  that  lofty 
'  room.    And  the  long  vista  that  leads 

*  us  so  gently  and  sadly,  and  yet  so 

*  gracefully  andwinningly,  to  the  plain 


§  n.] 


Dombey  and  Son. 


43 


are  very  marked,  and  it  is  rather  in  what  disunites  or  separates  London 

1847. 

them  that  we  seem  to  find  the  purpose  in  each.    If  the  one,  amid  

Florence 

much  strange  and  grotesque  violence  surroundmg  her,  expresses  and^Littie 
the  innocent  unconsciousness  of  childhood  to  such  rough  ways  of 
the  world,  passing  unscathed  as  Una  to  her  home  beyond  it,  the 
other  is  this  character  in  action  and  resistance,  a  brave  young 
resolute  heart  that  will  not  be  crushed,  and  neither  sinks  nor 
yields,  but  works  out  her  own  redemption  from  earth's  roughest 
trials.  Of  Edith  from  the  first  Jeffrey  judged  more  rightly ;  and,  j^^'^J^^^^^ 
when  the  story  was  nearly  half  done,  expressed  his  opinion  about 
her,  and  about  the  book  itself,  in  language  that  pleased  Dickens 
for  the  special  reason  that  at  the  time  this  part  of  the  book  had 
seemed  to  many  to  have  fallen  greatly  short  of  the  splendour  of 
its  opening.  Jeffrey  said  however  quite  truly,  claiming  to  be 
heard  with  authority  as  his  '  Critic-laureate,'  that  of  all  his  writings 
it  was  perhaps  the  most  finished  in  diction,  and  that  it  equalled 
the  best  in  the  delicacy  and  fineness  of  its  touches,  *  while  it  rises 

*  to  higher  and  deeper  passions,  not  resting,  like  most  of  the 

*  former,  in  sweet  thoughtfulness  and  thrilling  and  attractive  ten-  on  he 

*  demess,  but  boldly  wielding  all  the  lofty  and  terrible  elements  of  scenes. 

*  tragedy,  and  bringing  before  us  the  appalling  struggles  of  a 

*  proud,  scornful,  and  repentant  spirit.'  Not  that  she  was  exactly 
this.  Edith's  worst  qualities  are  but  the  perversion  oi  what 
should  have  been  her  best.  A  false  education  in  her,  and  a  tyrant 
passion  in  her  husband,  make  them  other  than  nature  meant ;  and 
both  show  how  life  may  run  its  evil  course  against  the  higher  dis- 
pensations. 

As  the  catastrophe  came  in  view,  a  nice  point  in  the  manage- 
ment of  her  character  and  destiny  arose.   I  quote  from  a  letter  of 
the  19th  of  November,  when  he  was  busy  with  his  fourteenth  Edith's 
part.    '  Of  course  she  hates  Carker  in  the  most  deadly  degree,  destiny. 

*  I  have  not  elaborated  that,  now,  because  (as  I  was  explaining  to 

*  Browne  the  other  day)  I  have  relied  on  it  very  much  for  the 

*  effect  of  her  death.    But  I  have  no  question  that  what  you  sug- 

*  gest  will  be  an  improvement.    The  strongest  place  to  put  it  in, 

*  would  be  the  close  of  the  chapter  immediately  before  this  last 

*  one.    I  want  to  make  the  two  first  chapters  as  light  as  I  can, 


44 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London 
1847-8. 


Doubts 
suggested. 


Disbeliefs 
of  Jeffrey. 


Diogenes 
remem- 
bered. 


Other 
characters. 


*  but  I  will  try  to  do  it,  solemnly,  in  that  place.'  Then  came  the 
effect  of  this  fourteenth  number  on  Jeffrey ;  raising  the  question 
of  whether  the  end  might  not  come  by  other  means  than  her 
death,  and  bringing  with  it  a  more  bitter  humiliation  for  her 
destroyer.  While  engaged  on  the  fifteenth  (21st  December) 
Dickens  thus  wrote  to  me  :  *  I  am  thoroughly  delighted  that  you 
'  like  what  I  sent.    I  enclose  designs.    Shadow-plate,  poor.  But 

*  I  think  Mr.  Dombey  admirable.    One  of  the  prettiest  things  in 

*  the  book  ought  to  be  at  the  end  of  the  chapter  I  am  writing 
'  now.  But  in  Florence's  marriage,  and  in  her  subsequent  return 
'  to  her  father,  I  see  a  brilliant  opportunity.  .  .  Note  from  Jeffrey 
'  this  morning,  who  won't  believe  (positively  refuses)  that  Edith 

*  is  Carker's  mistress.  What  do  you  think  of  a  kind  of  inverted 
'  Maid's  Tragedy,  and  a  tremendous  scene  of  her  undeceiving 

*  Carker,  and  giving  him  to  know  that  she  never  meant  that  ? '  So 
it  was  done ;  and  when  he  sent  me  the  chapter  in  which  Edith 
says  adieu  to  Florence,  I  had  nothing  but  pleasure  to  express. 

*  I  need  not  say,'  he  wrote  in  reply,  '  I  can't,  how  delighted  and 

*  overjoyed  I  am  by  what  you  say  and  feel  of  it.  I  propose  to 
'  show  Dombey  twice  more  ;  and  in  the  end,  leave  him  exactly  as 

*  you  describe.'  The  end  came  ;  and,  at  the  last  moment  when 
correction  was  possible,  this  note  arrived.    *  I  suddenly  remember 

*  that  I  have  forgotten  Diogenes.    Will  you  put  him  in  the  last 

*  little  chapter  1    After  the  word  "  favourite  "  in  reference  to  Miss 

*  Tox,  you  can  add,  "  except  with  Diogenes,  who  is  growing  old 

*  "  and  wilful."  Or,  on  the  last  page  of  all,  after  "  and  with  them 
'  "  two  children  :  boy  and  girl "  (I  quote  from  memory),  you 
'  might  say  "  and  an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company,"  or  to 

*  that  effect.    Just  what  you  think  best.' 

That  was  on  Saturday  the  25th  of  March,  1848,  and  may  be 
my  last  reference  to  Do7Jibey  until  the  book,  in  its  place  with  the 
rest,  finds  critical  allusion  when  I  close.  But  as  the  confidences 
revealed  in  this  chapter  have  dealt  wholly  with  the  leading  cur- 
rents of  interest,  there  is  yet  room  for  a  word  on  incidental  per- 
sons in  the  story,  of  whom  I  have  seen  other  so-called  confidences 
alleged  which  it  will  be  only  right  to  state  have  really  no  autho- 
rity.   And  first  let  me  say  what  unquestionable  evidence  these 


§  II.]  Dombey  and  Son.  45 

characters  give  of  the  unimpaired  freshness,  variety,  and  fitness  of  ^^^^^^  • 


Dickens's  invention  at  this  time.  Glorious  Captain  Cuttle,  laymg 
his  head  to  the  wind  and  fighting  through  everything ;  his  friend 
Jack  Bunsby,*  with  a  head  too  ponderous  to  lay-to,  and  so  falling  ^^^^^^ 
victim  to  the  inveterate  MacStinger;  good-hearted,  modest,  con- 
siderate Toots,  whose  brains  rapidly  go  as  his  whiskers  come,  but 
who  yet  gets  back  fi-om  contact  with  the  world,  in  his  shambling 
way,  some  fragments  of  the  sense  pumped  out  of  him  by  the 
forcing  Blimbers ;  breathless  Susan  Nipper,  beaming  Polly  Toodle, 
the  plaintive  Wickham,  and  the  awful  Pipchin,  each  with  her  duty 
in  the  starched  Dombey  household  so  nicely  appointed  as  to  seem  JJjJJ^gjf^^j^ 
bom  for  only  that;  simple  thoughtful  old  Gills  and  his  hearty 
young  lad  of  a  nephew;  Mr.  Toodle  and  his  children,  with  the 
charitable  grinder's  decline  and  fall ;  Miss  Tox,  obsequious  flatterer 
from  nothing  but  good-nature ;  spectacled  and  analytic,  but  not 
unkind  Miss  Blimber;  and  the  good  droning  dull  benevolent 
Doctor  himself,  withering  even  the  fruits  of  his  well-spread  dinner- 
table  with  his  //  is  remarkabky  Mr.  Feeder ^  thai  the  Romans — *  at 

*  the  mention  of  which  terrible  people,  their  implacable  enemies, 
^  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze  upon  the  Doctor,  with 

*  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  interest'  So  vivid  and  life-like 
were  all  these  people,  to  the  very  youngest  of  the  young  gentle- 
men, that  it  became  natural  eagerly  to  seek  out  for  them  actual  pro- 
totypes ;  but  I  think  I  can  say  with  some  confidence  of  them  all, 

that,  whatever  single  traits  may  have  been  taken  from  persons  Supposed 
known  to  him  (a  practice  with  all  writers,  and  very  specially  with  °"^*"* 
Dickens),  only  two  had  living  originals.  His  own  experience  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin  has  been  related ;  I  had  myself  some  knowledge  of 
Miss  Blimber ;  and  the  Little  Wooden  Midshipman  did  actually 
(perhaps  does  still)  occupy  his  post  of  observation  in  Leadenhall- 
street.  The  names  that  have  been  connected,  I  doubt  not  in  per- 
fect good  faith,  with  Sol  Gills,  Perch  the  Messenger,  and  Captain 
Cuttle,  have  certainly  not  more  foundation  than  the  fancy  a  Mistaken 

.  surmises. 

courteous  correspondent  favours  me  with,  that  the  redoubtable 


*  •  IsrCt  Bunsby  good  ? '  I  heard  I  think  to  Sir  Edward  Ryan ;  one  of 
Lord  Denman  call  out,  with  unmis-  the  few  survivors  of  that  dinner  party 
takable  glee,  over  Talfourd's  table —    of  May  1847  (now  also  gone.  1875). 


46 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  vi. 


London  :  Captain  must  have  sat  for  his  portrait  to  Charles  Lamb's  blustering 

 loud-talking,  hook-handed  Mr.  Mingay.    As  to  the  amiable  and 

excellent  city-merchant  whose  name  has  been  given  to  Mr.  Dombey 
{ante,  i.  358),  he  might  with  the  same  amount  of  justice  or  pro- 
bability be  supposed  to  have  originated  Coriolanus  or  Timon  of 
Athens. 


III. 

SEASIDE  HOLIDAYS. 
1848— 1851. 

London:      The  portion  of  Dickens's  life  over  which  his  adventures  of 
1848.  -^^ 

strolling  extended  was  in  other  respects  not  without  interest ;  and 
this  chapter  will  deal  with  some  of  his  seaside  holidays  before  I 
pass  to  the  publication  in  1848  of  the  story  of  The  Haunted  Man^ 
and  to  the  establishment  in  1850  of  the  Periodical  which  had 
been  in  his  thoughts  for  half  a  dozen  years  before,  and  has  had 
foreshadowings  nearly  as  frequent  in  my  pages. 
Louis  Among  the  incidents  of  1848  before  the  holiday  season  came, 

dethroned,  were  the  dethronement  of  Louis  Philippe,  and  birth  of  the  second 
French  republic:  on  which  I  ventured  to  predict  that  a  Gore- 
house  friend  of  ours,  and  his  friend,  would  in  three  days  be  on 
the  scene  of  action.    The  three  days  passed,  and  I  had  this  letter. 

*  Mardi,  Fevrier  29,  1848.    Mon  Cher.    Vous  etes  homme  de  la 
plus  grande  penetration !    Ah,  mon  Dieu,  que  vous  etes  absolu- 

*  ment  magnifique  !  Vous  prevoyez  presque  toutes  les  choses  qui 
'  vont  arriver ;  et  aux  choses  qui  viennent  d'arriver  vous  etes  mar- 

*  veilleusement  au-fait.  Ah,  cher  enfant,  quelle  idee  sublime  vous 
<  vous  aviez  \  la  tete  quand  vous  prevites  si  clairement  que  M.  le 

French  *  Comte  Alfred  d'Orsay  se  rendrait  au  pays  de  sa  naissance  ! 
from         *  Quel  magicien  !    Mais — c'est  tout  ^gal,  mais — il  n'est  pas  parti. 

*  11  reste  k  Gore-house,  oil,  avant-hier,  il  y  avait  un  grand  diner 

*  k  tout  le  monde.    Mais  quel  homme,  quel  ange,  neanmoins ! 

*  MoN  Ami,  je  trouve  que  j'aime  tant  la  Rdpublique,  qu'il  me  faut 

*  renoncer  ma  langue  et  ^crire  seulement  le  langage  de  la 


§  in.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


47 


*  R^publique  de  France — langage  des  Dieux  et  des  Anges —  London  : 

*  langage,  en  un  mot,  des  Frangais  !    Hier  au  soir  je  rencontrai  k  

*  TAthenaeum  Monsieur  Mack  Leese,  qui  me  dit  que  MM.  les 

*  Commissionnaires  des  Beaux  Arts  lui  avaient  dcrit,  par  leur 

*  secretaire,  un  billet  de  remerciements  \  propos  de  son  tableau 

*  dans  la  Chambre  des  Deputes,  et  qu'ils  lui  avaient  prie  de  faire 

*  I'autre  tableau  en  fresque,  dont  on  y  a  besoin.    Ce  qu'il  a 

*  promis.   Voici  des  nouvelles  pour  les  champs  de  Lincoln's  Inn ! 

*  Vive  la  gloire  de  France !    Vive  la  R^publique !    Vive  le  ^^f^fj^"" 

*  Peuple !    Plus  de  Royaut^  !    Plus  des  Bourbons  !    Plus  de  D»ckens. 

*  Guizot !    Mort  aux  traitres !    Faisons  couler  le  sang  pour  la 

*  liberty,  la  justice,  la  cause  populaire !    Jusqu'k  cinq  heures  et 

*  demie,  adieu,  mon  brave !    Recevez  Tassurance  de  ma  con- 

*  sid^ration  distingu^e,  et  croyez-moi,  concitoyen  !  votre  tout 
'  d^vou^  CiTOYEN  Charles  Dickens.'  I  proved  to  be  not 
quite  so  wrong,  nevertheless,  as  my  friend  supposed. 

Somewhat  earlier  than  usual  this  summer,  on  the  close  of  the  At 

Broad- 

Shakespeare-house  performances,  he  tried  Broadstairs  once  more,  stairs. 
having  no  important  writing  in  hand  :  but  in  the  brief  interval 
before  leaving  he  saw  a  thing  of  celebrity  in  those  days,  the 
Chinese  junk ;  and  I  had  all  the  details  in  so  good  a  description 
that  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  using  some  parts  of  it  at 
the  time.    *  Drive  down  to  the  Blackwall  railway/  he  wrote  to  me.  By  rail  lo 

'  China. 

'and  for  a  matter  of  eighteenpence  you  are  at  the  Chinese 
'  Empire  in  no  time.    In  half  a  score  of  minutes,  the  tiles  and 

*  chimney-pots,  backs  of  squalid  houses,  frowsy  pieces  of  waste 

*  ground,  narrow  courts  and  streets,  swamps,  ditches,  masts  of 

*  ships,  gardens  of  duckweed,  and  unwholesome  little  bowers  of 

*  scarlet  beans,  whirl  away  in  a  flying  dream,  and  nothing  is  left 

*■  but  China.    How  the  flowery  region  ever  came  into  this  latitude  The  junk. 

*  and  longitude  is  the  first  thing  one  asks  ;  and  it  is  not  certainly 

*  the  least  of  the  marvel.    As  Aladdin's  palace  was  transported 

*  hither  and  thither  by  the  rubbing  of  a  lamp,  so  the  crew  of 

*  Chinamen  aboard  the  Keying  devoutly  believed  that  their  good 
'  ship  would  turn  up,  quite  safe,  at  the  desired  port,  if  they  only 

*  tied  red  rags  enough  upon  the  mast,  rudder,  and  cable.  Some- 

*  how  they  did  not  succeed.    Perhaps  they  ran  short  of  rag ;  at 


48 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


any  rate  they  hadn't  enough  on  board  to  keep  them  above 
water ;  and  to  the  bottom  they  would  undoubtedly  have  gone 
but  for  the  skill  and  coolness  of  a  dozen  English  sailors,  who 
brought  them  over  the  ocean  in  safety.  Well,  if  there  be  any 
one  thing  in  the  world  that  this  extraordinary  craft  is  not  at  all 
like,  that  thing  is  a  ship  of  any  kind.  So  narrow,  so  long,  so 
grotesque ;  so  low  in  the  middle,  so  high  at  each  end,  like  a 
China  pen-tray ;  with  no  rigging,  with  nowhere  to  go  to  aloft ; 
with  mats  for  sails,  great  warped  cigars  for  masts,  gaudy  dragons 
and  sea-monsters  disporting  themselves  from  stem  to  stern,  and 
on  the  stem  a  gigantic  cock  of  impossible  aspect,  defying  the 
world  (as  well  he  may)  to  produce  his  equal, — it  would  look 
more  at  home  at  the  top  of  a  public  building,  or  at  the  top  of 
a  mountain,  or  in  an  avenue  of  trees,  or  down  in  a  mine,  than 
afloat  on  the  water.  As  for  the  Chinese  lounging  on  the  deck, 
the  most  extravagant  imagination  would  never  dare  to  suppose 
them  to  be  mariners.  Imagine  a  ship's  crew,  without  a  profile 
among  them,  in  gauze  pinafores  and  plaited  hair ;  wearing  stiff 
clogs  a  quarter  of  a  foot  thick  in  the  sole ;  and  lying  at  night 
in  little  scented  boxes,  like  backgammon  men  or  chess-pieces, 
or  mother-of-pearl  counters  !  But  by  Jove !  even  this  is  nothing 
to  your  surprise  when  you  go  down  into  the  cabin.  There  you 
get  into  a  torture  of  perplexity.  As,  what  became  of  all  those 
lanterns  hanging  to  the  roof  when  the  Junk  was  out  at  sea  ? 
Whether  they  dangled  there,  banging  and  beating  against  each 
other,  like  so  many  jesters'  baubles  ?  Whether  the  idol  Chin 
Tee,  of  the  eighteen  arms,  enshrined  in  a  celestial  Punch's 
Show,  in  the  place  of  honour,  ever  tumbled  out  in  heavy 
weather?  Whether  the  incense  and  the  joss-stick  still  burnt 
before  her,  with  a  faint  perfume  and  a  little  thread  of  smoke, 
while  the  mighty  waves  were  roaring  all  around?  Whether 
that  preposterous  tissue-paper  umbrella  in  the  comer  was 
always  spread,  as  being  a  convenient  maritime  instrument  for 
walking  about  the  decks  with  in  a  storm?  Whether  all  the 
cool  and  shiny  little  chairs  and  tables  were  continually  sliding 
about  and  bruising  each  other,  and  if  not  why  not  ?  Whether 
anybody  on  the  voyage  ever  read  those  two  books  printed 


i  III.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


49 


'  in  characters  like  bird-cages  and  fly-traps  ?    Whether  the  Man-  Broad- 

.  .  stairs: 

*  darin  passenger,  He  Sing,  who  had  never  been  ten  miles  from  1848. 

*  home  in  his  life  before,  lying  sick  on  a  bamboo  couch  in  a 
^  private  china  closet  of  his  own  (where  he  is  now  perpetually 

*  writing  autographs  for  inquisitive  barbarians),  ever  began  to 

*  doubt  the  potency  of  the  Goddess  of  the  Sea,  whose  counterfeit 

*  presentment,  like  a  flowery  monthly  nurse,  occupies  the  sailors' 

*  joss-house  in  the  second  gallery  ?    Whether  it  is  possible  that 

*  the  said  Mandarin,  or  the  artist  of  the  ship,  Sam  Sing,  Esquire, 

*  R.A,  of  Canton,  can  ever  go  ashore  without  a  walking-staff  of 

*  cinnamon,  agreeably  to  the  usage  of  their  likenesses  in  British 

'  tea-shops  ?    Above  all,  whether  the  hoarse  old  ocean  could  ever  ^  tfy-s^op 

tr  y  on  the  sea*. 

*  have  been  seriously  in  earnest  with  this  floating  toy-shop ;  or 

*  had  merely  played  with  it  in  lightness  of  spirit — roughly,  but 

*  meaning  no  harm — as  the  bull  did  with  another  kind  of  china- 

*  shop  on  St.  Patrick's  day  in  the  morning.' 

The  reply  made  on  this  brought  back  comment  and  sequel  not 
less  amusing.    *  Yes,  there  can  be  no  question  that  this  is  Finality 

*  in  perfection ;  and  it  is  a  great  advantage  to  have  the  doctrine 

*  so  oeautifuUy  worked  out,  and  shut  up  in  a  corner  of  a  dock 

*  near  a  fashionable  white-bait  house  for  the  edification  of  man. 

*  Thousands  of  years  have  passed  away  since  the  first  junk  was 
'  built  on  this  model,  and  the  last  junk  ever  launched  was  no 

*  better  for  that  waste  and  desert  of  time.    The  mimic  eye 

*  painted  on  their  prows  to  assist  them  in  finding  their  way,  has 

*  opened  as  wide  and  seen  as  far  as  any  actual  organ  of  sight  in 
'  all  the  interval  through  the  whole  immense  extent  of  that  strange 

*  country.    It  has  been  set  in  the  flowery  head  to  as  little  purpose 

*  for  thousands  of  years.  With  all  their  patient  and  ingenious  but 
'  never  advancing  art,  and  with  all  their  rich  and  diligent 

*  agricultural  cultivation,  not  a  new  twist  or  curve  has  been  given 

*  to  a  ball  of  ivory,  and  not  a  blade  of  experience  has  been 

*  grown.  There  is  a  genuine  finality  in  that ;  and  when  one 
'  comes  from  behind  the  wooden  screen  that  encloses  the  curious 

*  sight,  to  look  again  upon  the  river  and  the  mighty  signs  on  its  a  contrast 

*  banks  of  life,  enterprise,  and  progress,  the  question  that  comes 

*  nearest  is  beyond  doubt  a  home  one.    Whether  7ve  ever  by  any 

YOU  II.  E 


50 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Rook  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1848. 


Home 
q  uestions. 


Ai  to 

temperance 
agitation. 


Necessity 
of  dealing 
with  tempta- 
tions to 
gin-shop. 


*■  chance,  in  storms,  trust  to  red  rags ;  or  burn  joss-sticks  before 

*  idols ;  or  grope  our  way  by  the  help  of  conventional  eyes  that 

*  have  no  sight  in  them ;  or  sacrifice  substantial  facts  for  absurd 

*  forms  ?    The  ignorant  crew  of  the  Keying  refused  to  enter  on 

*  the  ships'  books,  until  *'  a  considerable  amount  of  silvered-paper, 
*'  tin-foil,  and  joss-stick  "  had  been  laid  in  by  the  owners  for  the 

*  purposes  of  their  worship.    And  I  wonder  whether  our  seamen, 

*  let  alone  our  bishops  and  deacons,  ever  stand  out  upon  points  of 

*  silvered-paper  and  tin-foil  and  joss-sticks.    To  be  sure  Chris- 

*  tianity  is  not  Chin-Teeism,  and  that  I  suppose  is  why  we  never 

*  lose  sight  of  the  end  in  contemptible  and  insignificant  quarrels 

*  about  the  means.    There  is  enough  matter  for  reflection  aboard 

*  the  Keying  at  any  rate  to  last  one's  voyage  home  to  England 

*  again.' 

Other  letters  of  the  summer  from  Broadstairs  will  complete 
what  he  wrote  from  the  same  place  last  year  on  Mr.  Cruikshank's 
efforts  in  the  cause  of  temperance,  and  will  enable  me  to  say, 
what  I  know  he  wished  to  be  remembered  in  his  story,  that  there 
was  no  subject  on  which  through  his  whole  life  he  felt  more 
strongly  than  this.  No  man  advocated  temperance,  even  as  far  as 
possible  its  legislative  enforcement,  with  greater  earnestness ;  but 
he  made  important  reservations.  Not  thinking  drunkenness  to  be 
a  vice  inborn,  or  incident  to  the  poor  more  than  to  other  people, 
he  never  would  agree  that  the  existence  of  a  gin-shop  was  the 
alpha  and  omega  of  it.  Believing  it  to  be  the  *  national  horror,* 
he  also  believed  that  many  operative  causes  had  to  do  with  having 
made  it  so ;  and  his  objection  to  the  temperance  agitation  was 
that  these  were  left  out  of  account  altogether.  He  thought  the 
gin-shop  not  fairly  to  be  rendered  the  exclusive  object  of  attack, 
until,  in  connection  with  the  classes  who  mostly  made  it  their 
resort,  the  temptations  that  led  to  it,  physical  and  moral,  should 
have  been  more  bravely  dealt  with.  Among  the  former  he 
counted  foul  smells,  disgusting  habitations,  bad  workshops,  and 
workshop-customs,  scarcity  of  light,  air,  and  water,  in  short  the 
absence  of  all  easy  means  of  decency  and  health ;  and  among  the 
latter,  the  mental  weariness  and  languor  so  induced,  the  desire  of 
wholesome  relaxation,  the  craving  for  some  stimulus  and  excite- 


§  in.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


51 


ment,  not  less  needful  than  the  sun  itself  to  lives  so  passed,  and  broad- 

^  stairs: 

last,  and  inclusive  of  all  the  rest,  ignorance,  and  the  want  of  ^^48. 
rational  mental  training  generally  applied.    This  was  consistently 
Dickens's  *  platform  '  throughout  the  years  he  was  known  to  me  ; 
and  holding  it  to  be  within  the  reach  as  well  as  the  scope  of 
legislation,  which  even  our  political  magnates  have  been  dis- 
covering lately,  he  thought  intemperance  to  be  but  the  one  result 
that,  out  of  all  of  those  arising  from  the  absence  of  legislation,  was 
the  most  wretched.    For  him,  drunkenness  had  a  teeming  and  stages 
reproachful   history   anterior   to   the   drunken  stage ;  and   he  drunken- 
thought  it  the  first  duty  of  the  moralist  bent  upon  annihilating  the 
gin-shop,  to  '  strike  deep  and  spare  not '  at  those  previous  remedi- 
able evils.    Certainly  this  was  not  the  way  of  Mr.  Cruikshank, 
any  more  than  it  is  that  of  the  many  excellent  people  who  take 
part  in  temperance  agitations.    His  former  tale  of  the  Bottle^  as 
told  by  his  admirable  pencil,  was  that  of  a  decent  working  man, 
father  of  a  boy  and  a  girl,  living  in  comfort  and  good  esteem  until  Cmik- 
near  the  middle  age,  when,  happening  unluckily  to  have  a  goose  ^bmu: 
for  dinner  one  day  in  the  bosom  of  his  thriving  family,  he  jocularly 
sends  out  for  a  bottle  of  gin,  persuades  his  wife,  until  then  a 
picture  of  neatness,  and  good  housewifery,  to  take  a  little  drop 
after  the  stuffing,  and  the  whole  family  from  that  moment  drink 
themselves  to  destruction.    The  sequel,  of  which  Dickens  now 
wrote  to  me,  traced  the  lives  of  the  boy  and  girl  after  the  wretched  and 
deaths  of  their  drunken  parents,  through  gin-shop,  beer-shop,  and  chilt-enf 
dancing-rooms,  up  to  their  trial  for  robbery  :  when  the  boy  is 
convicted,  dying  aboard  the  hulks ;  and  the  girl,  desolate  and 
mad  after  her  acquittal,  flings  herself  from  London-bridge  into  the 
night-darkened  river. 

'  I  think,'  said  Dickens,  '  the  power  of  that  closing  scene  quite 

*  extraordinary.    It  haunts  the  remembrance  like  an  awful  reality. 

*  It  is  full  of  passion  and  terror,  and  I  doubt  very  much  whether 

*  any  hand  but  his  could  so  have  rendered  it.    There  are  other 

*  fine  things  too.    The  death-bed  scene  on  board  the  hulks ;  the 

*  convict  who  is  composing  the  face,  and  the  other  who  is  drawing 

*  the  screen  round  the  bed's  head ;  seem  to  me  masterpieces 

*  worthy  of  the  greatest  painter.    The  reality  oi  the  place,  and  the 

K  ? 


0.  OF 


52 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  vi. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1848. 

Realities 
of  Cruik- 
shank's 
nencil. 


Dickens  on 
Hogarth. 


Cause  as 
well  aa 
effect 


*  fidelity  with  which  every  minute  object  illustrative  of  it  is  pre- 

*  sented,  are  surprising.    I  think  myself  no  bad  judge  of  this 

*  feature,  and  it  is  remarkable  throughout.    In  the  trial  scene  at 

*  the  Old  Bailey,  the  eye  may  wander  round  the  Court,  and 

*  observe  everything  that  is  a  part  of  the  place.    The  very  light 

*  and  atmosphere  are  faithfully  reproduced.    So,  in  the  gin-shop 

*  and  the  beer-shop.    An  inferior  hand  would  indicate  a  fragment 

*  of  the  fact,  and  slur  it  over ;  but  here  every  shred  is  honestly 
'  made  out.    The  man  behind  the  bar  in  the  gin-shop,  is  as  real 

*  as  the  convicts  at  the  hulks,  or  the  barristers  round  the  table  in 

*  the  Old  Bailey.  I  found  it  quite  curious,  as  I  closed  the  book, 
<  to  recall  the  number  of  faces  I  had  seen  of  individual  identity, 

*  and  to  think  what  a  chance  they  have  of  living,  as  the  Spanish 

*  friar  said  to  Wilkie,  when  the  living  have  passed  away.  But  it 
*•  only  makes  more  exasperating  to  me  the  obstinate  one-sidedness 

*  of  the  thing.    When  a  man  shows  so  forcibly  the  side  of  the 

*  medal  on  which  the  people  in  their  faults  and  crimes  are 

*  stamped,  he  is  the  more  bound  to  help  us  to  a  glance  at  that 

*  other  side  on  which  the  faults  and  vices  of  the  governments 

*  placed  over  the  people  are  not  less  gravely  impressed.' 

This  led  to  some  remark  on  Hogarth's  method  in  such  matters, 
and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  preserve  a  masterly  criticism  of  that 
great  Englishman,  by  a  writer  who  closely  resembled  him  in 
genius;  as  another  generation  will  be  probably  more  apt  than 
our  own  to  discover.    *  Hogarth  avoided  the  Drunkard's  Progress, 

*  I  conceive,  precisely  because  the  causes  of  drunkenness  among 

*  the  poor  were  so  numerous  and  widely  spread,  and  lurked  so 

*  sorrowfully  deep  and  far  down  in  all  human  misery,  neglect,  and 

*  despair,  that  even  his  pencil  could  not  bring  them  fairly  and 

*  justly  into  the  light.    It  was  never  his  plan  to  be  content  with 

*  only  showing  the  effect    In  the  death  of  the  miser-father,  his 

*  shoe  new-soled  with  the  binding  of  his  bible,  before  the  young 

*  Rake  begins  his  career ;  in  the  worldly  father,  listless  daughter, 

*  impoverished  young  lord,  and  crafty  lawyer,  of  the  first  plate  of 

*  Marriage-k-la-mode ;  in  the  detestable  advances  through  the 

*  stages  of  Cruelty ;  and  in  the  progress  downward  of  Thomas 

*  I41e  ;  you  see  the  effects  indeed,  but  also  the  causes.    He  was 


§  ni.] 


Seaside  Holidays, 


*  never  disposed  to  spare  the  kind  of  drunkenness  that  was  of  Broad- 

STAIRS 

*  more  "  respectable  "  engenderment,  as  one  sees  in  his  midnight  ^848. 

*  modern  conversation,  the  election  plates,  and  crowds  of  stupid 

*  aldermen  and  other  guzzlers.    But  after  one  immortal  journey 

*  down  Gin-lane,  he  turned  away  in  pity  and  sorrow — perhaps  in 

*  hope  of  better  things,  one  day,  from  better  laws  and  schools  and 
'  poor  men's  homes — and  went  back  no  more.    The  scene  of 

*  Gin-lane,  you  know,  is  that  just  cleared  away  for  the  extension  of  Gin-kne. 

*  Oxford-street,  which  we  were  looking  at  the  other  day ;  and  I 

*  think  it  a  remarkable  trait  of  Hogarth's  picture,  that,  while  it 

*  exhibits  drunkenness  in  the  most  appalling  forms,  it  also  forces 

*  on  attention  a  most  neglected  wretched  neighbourhood,  and  an 
'  unwholesome,  indecent,  abject  condition  of  life  that  might  be 

*  put  as  frontispiece  to  our  sanitary  report  of  a  hundred  years  later 
'  date.    I  have  always  myself  thought  the  purpose  of  this  fine 

*  piece  to  be  not  adequately  stated  even  by  Charles  Lamb. 

*  "  The  very  houses  seem  absolutely  reeling "  it  is  tme ;  but 
'  beside  that  wonderful  picture  of  what  follows  intoxication,  we 

*  have  indication  quite  as  powerful  of  what  leads  to  it  among  the 

*  neglected  classes.    There  is  no  evidence  that  any  of  the  actors 

*  in  the  dreary  scene  have  ever  been  much  better  than  we  see 

*  them  there.    The  best  are  pawning  the  commonest  necessaries, 

*  and  tools  of  their  trades ;  and  the  worst  are  homeless  vagrants 

*  who  give  us  no  clue  to  their  having  been  otherwise  in  bygone 

*  days.    All  are  living  and  dying  miserably.    Nobody  is  inter-  wisdom  of 

*  fering  for  prevention  or  for  cure,  in  the  generation  going  out  patiuer.^' 

*  before  us,  or  the  generation  coming  in.    The  beadle  is  the  only 

*  sober  man  in  the  composition  except  the  pawnbroker,  and  he  is 

*  mightily  indifferent  to  the  orphan-child  crying  beside  its  parent's 

*  coffin.    The  little  charity-girls  are  not  so  well  taught  or  looked 

*  after,  but  that  they  can  take  to  dram-drinking  already.  The 

*  church  indeed  is  very  prominent  and  handsome ;  but  as,  quite 

*  passive  in  the  picture,  it  coldly  surveys  these  things  in  progress 

*  under  shadow  of  its  tower,  I  cannot  but  bethink  me  that  it  was  Late,  but 

*  not  until  this  year  of  grace  1848  that  a  Bishop  of  London  first  Ute!'^ 

*  came  out  respecting  something  wrong  in  poor  men's  social 

*  accommodations,  and  I  am  confirmed  in  my  suspicion  that 


54 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1848. 

On  designs 
by  Leech. 


Beauty 
and  its 
uses. 


*  Hogarth  had  many  meanings  which  have  not  grown  obsolete  in 

*  a  century.' 

Another  art-criticism  by  Dickens  should  be  added.  Upon  a 
separate  publication  by  Leech  of  some  drawings  on  stone  called 
the  Rising  Generation,  from  designs  done  for  Mr.  Punch's  gallery, 
he  wrote  at  my  request  a  little  essay  of  which  a  few  sentences  will 
find  appropriate  place  with  his  letter  on  the  other  great  caricaturist 
of  his  time.  I  use  that  word,  as  he  did,  only  for  want  of  a  better. 
Dickens  was  of  opinion  that,  in  this  particular  line  of  illustration, 
while  he  conceded  all  his  fame  to  the  elder  and  stronger  con- 
temporary, Mr.  Leech  was  the  very  first  Englishman  who  had 
made  Beauty  a  part  of  his  art;  and  he  held,  that,  by  striking  out 
this  course,  and  setting  the  successful  example  of  introducing 
always  into  his  most  whimsical  pieces  some  beautiful  faces  or 
agreeable  forms,  he  had  done  more  than  any  other  man  of  his 
generation  to  refine  a  branch  of  art  to  which  the  facilities  of 
steam-printing  and  wood-engraving  were  giving  almost  unrivalled 
diffusion  and  popularity.  His  opinion  of  Leech  in  a  word  was 
that  he  turned  caricature  into  character ;  and  would  leave  behind 
him  not  a  little  of  the  history  of  his  time  and  its  follies,  sketched 
with  inimitable  grace. 

'  If  we  turn  back  to  a  collection  of  the  works  of  Rowlandson  or 

*  Gilray,  we  shall  find,  in  spite  of  the  great  humour  displayed  in 
'  many  of  them,  that  they  are  rendered  wearisome  and  unpleasant 

*  by  a  vast  amount  of  personal  ugliness.    Now,  besides  that  it  is 

*  a  poor  device  to  represent  what  is  satirized  as  being  necessarily 

*  ugly,  which  is  but  the  resource  of  an  angry  child  or  a  jealous 
*■  woman,  it  serves  no  purpose  but  to  produce  a  disagreeable 

*  result.    There  is  no  reason  why  the  farmer's  daughter  in  the 

*  old  caricature  who  is  squalling  at  the  harpsichord  (to  the  intense 

*  delight,  by  the  bye,  of  her  worthy  father,  whom  it  is  her  duty  to 

*  please)  should  be  squab  and  hideous.    The  satire  on  the  manner 

*  of  her  education,  if  there  be  any  in  the  thing  at  all,  would  be 

*  just  as  good,  if  she  were  pretty.  Mr.  Leech  would  have  made 
'  her  so.    The  average  of  farmers'  daughters  in  England  are  not 

*  impossible  lumps  of  fat.    One  is  quite  as  likely  to  find  a  pretty 

*  girl  in  a  farm-house,  as  to  find  an  ugly  one ;  and  we  think,  with 


§  ni.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


55 


*  Mr.  Leech,  that  the  business  of  this  style  of  art  is  with  the  pretty 

*  one.    She  is  not  only  a  pleasanter  object,  but  we  have  more  ^848. 

*  interest  in  her.    We  care  more  about  what  does  become  her,  Superiority 

over  ugh- 

*  and  does  not  become  her.    Mr.  Leech  represented  the  other  ness. 

*  day  certain  delicate  creatures  with  bewitching  countenances 

*  encased  in  several  varieties  of  that  amazing  garment,  the  ladies' 

*  paletot    Formerly  those  fair  creatures  would  have  been  made 

*  as  ugly  and  ungainly  as  possible,  and  then  the  point  would  have 

*  been  lost.    The  spectator,  with  a  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the 

*  whole  group,  would  not  have  cared  how  such  uncouth  creatures 

*  disguised  themselves,  or  how  ridiculous  they  became.  .  .  .  But 

*  to  represent  female  beauty  as  Mr.  Leech  represents  it,  an  artist 

*  must  have  a  most  delicate  perception  of  it ;  and  the  gift  of  being 

*  able  to  realise  it  to  us  with  two  or  three  slight,  sure  touches  of 

*  his  pencil.   This  power  Mr.  Leech  possesses,  in  an  extraordinary 

*  degree.  .  .  .  For  this  reason,  we  enter  our  protest  against  those 

*  of  the  Rising  Generation  who  are  precociously  in  love  being 

*  made  the  subject  of  merriment  by  a  pitiless  and  unsympathizing 

*  world.    We  never  saw  a  boy  more  distinctly  in  the  right  than 

*  the  young  gentleman  kneeling  on  the  chair  to  beg  a  lock  of  hair 

*  from  his  pretty  cousin,  to  take  back  to  school.    Madness  is  in 

*  her  apron,  and  Virgil  dog's-eared  and  defaced  is  in  her  ringlets. 

*  Doubts  may  suggest  themselves  of  the  perfect  disinterestedness 

*  of  the  other  young  gentleman  contemplating  the  fair  girl  at  the 

*  piano — doubts  engendered  by  his  worldly  allusion  to  "  tin  "  ; 

*  though  even  that  may  have  arisen  in  his  modest  consciousness 

*  of  his  own  inability  to  support  an  establishment — but  that  he 

*  should  be  "  deucedly  inclined  to  go  and  cut  that  fellow  out," 

*  appears  to  us  one  of  the  most  natural  emotions  of  the  human 

*  breast    The  young  gentleman  with  the  dishevelled  hair  and  Leech's 

*  clasped  hands  who  loves  the  transcendant  beauty  with  the  oLnefaUon 

*  bouquet,  and  can't  be  happy  without  her,  is  to  us  a  withering 

*  and  desolate  spectacle.    Who  could     happy  without  her?  .  .  . 

*  The  growing  youths  are  not  less  happily  observed  and  agreeably 

*  depicted  than  the  grown  women.    The  languid  little  creature 

*  who  "  hasn't  danced  since  he  was  quite  a  boy,"  is  perfect ;  and 

*  the  eagerness  of  the  small  dancer  whom  he  declines  to  receive 


56 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1848. 


What 

Leech  will 
be  remem- 
bered for. 


*  for  a  partner  at  the  hands  of  the  glorious  old  lady  of  the  house 

*  (the  little  feet  quite  ready  for  the  first  position,  the  whole  heart 
'  projected  into  the  quadrille,  and  the  glance  peeping  timidly  at 
*the  desired  one  out  of  a  flutter  of  hope  and  doubt)  is  quite 

*  delightful  to  look  at.   The  intellectual  juvenile  who  awakens  the 

*  tremendous  wrath  of  a  Norma  of  private  life  by  considering  woman 

*  an  inferior  animal,  is  lecturing  at  the  present  moment,  we  under- 

*  stand,  on  the  Concrete  in  connexion  with  the  Will.    The  legs  of 

*  the  young  philosopher  who  considers  Shakespeare  an  over-rated 

*  man,  were  seen  by  us  dangling  over  the  side  of  an  omnibus  last 

*  Tuesday.  We  have  no  acquaintance  with  the  scowling  young 
^  gentleman  who  is  clear  that  "  if  his  Governor  don't  like  the  way 

*  "  he  goes  on  in,  why  he  must  have  chambers  and  so  much  a  week;" 

*  but  if  he  is  not  by  this  time  in  Van  Diemen's-land,  he  will  cer- 

*  tainly  go  to  it  through  Newgate.    We  should  exceedingly  dislike 

*  to  have  personal  property  in  a  strong  box,  to  live  in  the  suburb 

*  of  Camberwell,  and  to  be  in  the  relation  of  bachelor-uncle  to 

*  that  youth.  ...  In  all  his  designs,  whatever  Mr.  Leech  desires 

*  to  do,  he  does.    His  drawing  seems  to  us  charming ;  and  the 

*  expression  indicated,  though  by  the  simplest  means,  is  exactly 
'  the  natural  expression,  and  is  recognised  as  such  immediately. 
'  Some  forms  of  our  existing  life  will  never  have  a  better  chronicler. 
'  His  wit  is  good-natured,  and  always  the  wit  of  a  gentleman.  He 
'  has  a  becoming  sense  of  responsibility  and  self-restraint ;  he 
'  delights  in  agreeable  things ;  he  imparts  some  pleasant  air  of 
'  his  own  to  things  not  pleasant  in  themselves ;  he  is  suggestive 

*  and  full  of  matter ;  and  he  is  always  improving.    Into  the  tone 

*  as  well  as  into  the  execution  of  what  he  does,  he  has  brought  a 

*  certain  elegance  which  is  altogether  new,  without  involving  any 
'  compromise  of  what  is  true.    Popular  art  in  England  has  not 

*  had  so  rich  an  acquisition.'  Dickens's  closing  allusion  was  to  a 
remark  made  by  Mr.  Ford  in  a  review  of  Oliver  Twist  formerly 
referred  to.     *  It  is  eight  or  ten  years  since  a  writer  in  the 

*  Quarterly  Review^  making  mention  of  Mr.  George  Cruikshank, 

*  commented  on  the  absurdity  of  excluding  such  a  man  from  the 

*  Royal  Academy,  because  his  works  were  not  produced  in  certain 

*  materials,  and  did  not  occupy  a  certain  space  in  its  annual  shows. 


§  III.]  Seaside  Holidays,  57 

*  Will  no  Associates  be  found  upon  its  books  one  of  these  days,  BkoAo- 

STAIRS: 

*  the  labours  of  whose  oil  and  brushes  will  have  sunk  into  the  184a 

*  profoundest  obscurity,  when  many  pencil-marks  of  Mr.  Cruik- 

*  shank  and  of  Mr.  Leech  will  be  still  fresh  in  half  the  houses  in 
'the  land?' 

Of  what  otherwise  occupied  him  at  Broadstairs  in  1848  there  is 
not  much  to  mention  until  the  close  of  his  holiday.  He  used  to 
say  that  he  never  went  for  more  than  a  couple  of  days  from  his 
own  home  without  something  befalling  him  that  never  happened 
to  anyone  else,  and  his  Broadstairs  adventure  of  the  present 
summer  verged  closer  on  tragedy  than  comedy.  Returning  there 
one  day  in  August  after  bringing  up  his  boys  to  school,  it  had 
been  arranged  that  his  wife  should  meet  him  at  Margate  ;  but  he 
had  walked  impatiently  far  beyond  the  place  for  meeting  when  at 
last  he  caught  sight  of  her,  not  in  the  small  chaise  but  in  a  large 
carriage  and  pair  followed  by  an  excited  crowd,  and  with  the 
youth  that  should  have  been  driving  the  little  pony  bruised  and 
bandaged  on  the  box  behind  the  two  prancing  horses.   *  You  may 

*  faintly  imagine  my  amazement  at  encountering  this  carriage,  and  Pony- 

*  the  strange  people,  and  Kate,  and  the  crowd,  and  the  bandaged  accident. 

*  one,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.'  And  then  in  a  line  or  two  I  had  the 
story.    *  At  the  top  of  a  steep  hill  on  the  road^  with  a  ditch  on 

*  each  side,  the  pony  bolted,  whereupon  what  does  John  do  but 
'  jump  out !    He  says  he  was  thrown  out,  but  it  cannot  be.  The 

*  reins  immediately  became  entangled  in  the  wheels,  and  away 

*  went  the  pony  down  the  hill  madly,  with  Kate  inside  rending 

*  the  Isle  of  Thanet  with  her  screams.    The  accident  might  have 

*  been  a  fearful  one,  if  the  pony  had  not,  thank  Heaven,  on 

*  getting  to  the  bottom,  pitched  over  the  side ;  breaking  the  shaft 

*  and  cutting  her  hind  legs,  but  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner 

*  smashing  her  own  way  apart.    She  tumbled  down,  a  bundle  of 

*  legs  with  her  head  tucked  underneath,  and  left  the  chaise  stand- 

*  ing  on  the  bank  !  A  Captain  Devaynes  and  his  wife  were  passing 

*  in  their  carriage  at  the  moment,  saw  the  accident  with  no  power 

*  of  preventing  it,  got  Kate  out,  laid  her  on  the  grass,  and  behaved 

*  with  infinite  kindness.    All's  well  that  ends  well,  and  I  think 

*  she's  really  none  the  worse  for  the  fright    John  is  in  bed  a 


58 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1848. 

Parallel  to 
Squeers. 


Strenuous 
idleness. 


French  phi- 
losophy. 


*  good  deal  bruised,  but  without  any  broken  bone,  and  likely 

*  soon  to  come  right  \  though  for  the  present  plastered  all  over, 
'  and,  like  Squeers,  a  brown-paper  parcel  chock-full  of  nothing 

*  but  groans.    The  women  generally  have  no  sympathy  for  him 

*  whatever,  and  the  nurse  says,  with  indignation,  How  could  he  go 
'  and  leave  a  unprotected  female  in  the  shay ! ' 

Holiday  incidents  there  were  many,  but  none  that  need  detain 
us.  This  was  really  a  summer  idleness  :  for  it  was  the  interval 
between  two  of  his  important  undertakings,  there  was  no 
periodical  yet  to  make  demands  on  him,  and  only  the  task  of 
finishing  his  Haunted  Man  for  Christmas  lay  ahead.  But  he  did 
even  his  nothings  in  a  strenuous  way,  and  on  occasion  could  make 
gallant  fight  against  the  elements  themselves.  He  reported  him- 
self, to  my  horror,  thrice  wet  through  on  a  single  day,  '  dressed 

*  four  times,'  and  finding  all  sorts  of  great  things,  brought  out  by 
the  rains,  among  the  rocks  on  the  sea-beach.  He  also  sketched 
now  and  then  morsels  of  character  for  me,  of  which  I  will  pre- 
serve one.    *  F  is  philosophical,  from  sunrise  to  bedtime  :  chiefly 

*  in  the  French  line,  about  French  women  going  mad,  and  in  that 

*  state  coming  to  their  husbands,  and  saying,  "  Mon  ami,  je  vous 

*  "  ai  trompe.    Voici  les  lettres  de  mon  amant !  "  Whereupon 

*  the  husbands  take  the  letters  and  think  them  waste  paper,  and 
'  become  extra-philosophical  at  finding  that  they  really  were  the 

*  lover's  effusions :  though  what  there  is  of  philosophy  in  it  all,  or 

*  anything  but  unwholesomeness,  it  is  not  easy  to  see.'  (A 
remark  that  it  might  not  be  out  of  place  to  offer  to  Mr.  Taine's 
notice.)    *  Likewise  about  dark  shades  coming  over  our  wedded 

*  Emmeline's  face  at  parties ;  and  about  F  handing  her  to  her 

*  carriage,  and  sa)dng,  "  May  I  come  in,  for  a  lift  homeward  ?  " 

*  and  she  bending  over  him  out  of  the  window,  and  saying  in  a 
'  low  voice,  I  DARE  NOT  !  And  then  of  the  carriage  driving  away 
'  like  lightning,  leaving  F  more  philosophical  than  ever  on  ths 
'  pavement.'  Not  till  the  close  of  September  I  heard  of  work 
intruding  itself,  in  a  letter  twitting  me  for  a  broken  promise  in 
not  joining  him  :  *  We  are  reasonably  jolly,  but  rurally  so ;  going 

*  to  bed  o'  nights  at  ten,  and  bathing  o'  mornings  at  half-past 
*■  seven ;  and  not  drugging  ourselves  with  those  dirty  and  spoiled 


§  ni.] 


Seaside  Holidays, 


59 


*  waters  of  Lethe  that  flow  round  the  base  of  the  great  pyramid.*  ^^^^g'. 
Then,  after  mention  of  the  friends  who  had  left  him,  Sheriff  ^848. 
Gordon,  the  Leeches,  Lemon,  Egg  and  Stone  :  *  reflection  and  shadows  of 

*  pensiveness  are  coming.    I  have  not 

*  — seen  Fancy  write 
*  With  a  pencil  of  light 
*  On  the  blotter  so  solid,  commanding  the  sea  ! 

*  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  were  to  do  it,  one  of  these  days. 

*  Dim  visions  of  divers  things  are  floating  around  me  ;  and  I  must 

*  go  to  work,  head  foremost,  when  I  get  home.    I  am  glad,  after 

*  all,  that  I  have  not  been  at  it  here  ;  for  I  am  all  the  better  for 

*  my  idleness,  no  doubt.  .  .  Roche  was  very  ill  last  night,  and 
'  looks  like  one  with  his  face  turned  to  the  other  world,  this 
'  morning.  When  are  you  coming  ?  Oh  what  days  and  nights 
'  there  have  been  here,  this  week  past ! '  My  consent  to  a  sug- 
gestion in  his  next  letter,  tliat  I  should  meet  him  on  his  way 
back,  and  join  him  in  a  walking-excursion  home,  got  me  full 
absolution  for  broken  promises ;  and  the  way  we  took  will  remind 
friends  of  his  later  life,  when  he  was  lord  of  Gadshill,  of  an  object 
of  interest  which  he  delighted  in  taking  them  to  see.    *  You  will 

*  come  down  booked  for  Maidstone  (I  will  meet  you  at  Paddock-  a  favourite 
'  wood),  and  we  will  go  thither  in  company  over  a  most  beautiful  ^^"^^ 

*  little  line  of  railroad.  The  eight  miles  walk  from  Maidstone  to 
*■  Rochester,  and  the  visit  to  the  Druidical  altar  on  the  wayside, 

*  are  charming.    This  could  be  accomplished  on  the  Tuesday ; 

*  and  Wednesday  we  might  look  about  us  at  Chatham,  coming 

*  home  by  Cobham  on  Thursday.  .  . 

His  first  sea-side  holidays  1849  was  at  Brighton,  where  he  At  Brigh- 
passed  some  weeks  in  February;  and  not,  I  am  bound  to  add,  1849.' 
without  the  usual  uhmsmzX  adventure  to  signalize  his  visit  He 
had  not  been  a  week  in  his  lodgings,  where  Leech  and  his  wife 
joined  him,  when  both  his  landlord  and  the  daughter  of  his 
landlord  went  raving  mad,  and  the  lodgers  were  driven  away  to 
the  Bedford  hotel.    *  If  you  could  have  heard  the  cursing  and 

*  crying  of  the  two ;  could  have  seen  the  physician  and  nurse 

*  quoited  out  into  the  passage  by  the  madman  at  the  hazard  of 

*  their  lives ;  could  have  seen  Leech  and  me  flying  to  the  doctor's 


6o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


Brighton:    <  rcscuc  ;  could  have  seen  our  wives  pulling  us  back  ;  could  have 

*  seen  the  M.D.  faint  with  fear;  could  have  seen  three  other 

*  M.D.'s  come  to  his  aid;  with  an  atmosphere  of  Mrs.  Gamps, 
'  strait-waistcoats,  struggling  friends  and  servants,  surrounding  the 
'  whole  ;  you  would  have  said  it  was  quite  worthy  of  me,  and 
'  quite  in  keeping  with  my  usual  proceedings.'  The  letter  ended 
with  a  word  on  what  then  his  thoughts  were  full  of,  but  for  which 
no  name  had  yet  been  found.    *  A  sea-fog  to-day,  but  yesterday 

A  name  for   *  inexpressibly  delicious.    My  mind  running,  like  a  high  sea,  on 

his  new  >j  ^ 

liook.  «  names — not  satisfied  yet,  though.'  When  he  next  wrote  from 
the  sea-side,  in  the  beginning  of  July,  he  had  found  the  name ; 
had  started  his  book  ;  and  was  '  rushing  to  Broadstairs  '  to  write 
the  fourth  number  of  David  Copperfield. 

At  Broad-      In  this  Came  the  childish  experiences  which  had  left  so  deep 

STAIRS :  ^ 

an  impression  upon  him,  and  over  which  he  had  some  difficulty 
in  throwing  the  needful  disguises.    *  Fourteen  miles  to-day  in  the 

*  country,'  he  had  written  to  me  on  the  21st  of  June,  *  revolving 

*  number  four  ! '  Still  he  did  not  quite  see  his  way.  Three  days 
later  he  wrote  :  *  On  leaving  you  last  night,  I  found  myself  sum- 
'  moned  on  a  special  jury  in  the  Queen's  Bench  to-day.  I  have 
'  taken  no  notice  of  the  document,  and  hourly  expect  to  be 
'  dragged  forth  to  a  dungeon  for  contempt  of  court.  I  think  I 
'  should  rather  like  it.  It  might  help  me  with  a  new  notion  or 
'  two  in  my  difficulties.  Meanwhile  I  shall  take  a  stroll  to  night 
'  in  the  green  fields  from  seven  to  ten,  if  you  feel  inclined  to  join.' 

End  of       His  troubles  ended  when  he  got  to  Broadstairs,  from  which  he 

trouble 

with  No.     wrote  on  the  tenth  of  July  to  tell  me  that  agreeably  to  the  plan 

four. 

we  had  discussed  he  had  introduced  a  great  part  of  his  M.S.  mto 
the  number.    '  I  really  think  I  have  done  it  ingeniously,  and  with 

*  a  very  complicated  interweaving  of  truth  and  fiction.  Vous 
'  verrez.    I  am  getting  on  like  a  house  afire  in  point  of  health, 

*  and  ditto  ditto  in  point  of  number.* 

In  the  middle  of  July  the  number  was  nearly  done,  and  he  was 
still  doubtful  where  to  pass  his  longer  summer  holiday.  Leech 
wished  to  join  him  in  it,  and  both  desired  a  change  from  Broad- 
stairs.   At  first  he  thought  of  Folkstone,*  but  disappointment 

•  Even  in  the  modest  retirement  of  a  note  I  fear  tl^at  I  shall  offend  the 


S  III.]  Seaside  Holidays.  6i 

there  led  to  a  sudden  change.    *  I  propose  '  (15th  of  July)  '  re-  broad- 

STAIRS  * 

*  turning  to  town  to-morrow  by  the  boat  from  Ramsgate,  and     1849.  ' 


dignity  of  history  and  biography  by 
printing  the  lines  in  which  this  inten- 
tion was  announced  to  me.  They 
were  written  *  in  character  ; '  and  the 
character  was  that  of  the  '  waterman  ' 
at  the  Charing-cross  cabstand,  first 
discovered  by  George  Cattermole, 
whose  imitations  of  him  were  a  dehght 
to  Dickens  at  this  time,  and  adapted 
themselves  in  the  exuberance  of  his 
admiration  toevery  conceivable  variety 
of  subject.  The  painter  of  the  Derby 
Day  will  have  a  fullness  of  satisfaction 
in  remembering  this.  *  Sloppy,'  the 
hero  in  question,  had  a  friend  *  Jack ' 
in  whom  he  was  supposed  to  typify 
his  own  early  and  hard  experiences 
before  he  became  a  convert  to  temper- 
ance ;  and  Dickens  used  to  point  to 

*  Jack  '  as  the  justification  of  himself 
and  Mrs.  Gamp  for  their  portentous 
invention  of  Mrs.  Harris.  It  is  amazing 
nonsense  to  repeat ;  but  to  hear  Cat- 
termole, in  the  gruff  hoarse  accents  of 
what  seemed  to  be  the  remains  of  a 
deep  bass  voice  enveloped  in  wet 
straw,  repeat  the  wild  proceedings  of 
Jack,  was  not  to  be  forgotten.    *  Yes 

*  sir.  Jack  went  mad  sir,  just  afore  he 

*  'stablished  hisself  by  Sir  Robert 

*  Peel's-s-s,  sir.  He  was  allis  a  callin' 
'  for  a  pint  o'  beer  sir,  and  they  brings 

*  him  water  sir.    Yes  sir.    And  so 

*  sir,  I  sees  him  dodgin'  about  one  day 

*  sir,  yes  sir,  and  at  last  he  gits  a 

*  hopportunity  sir  and  claps  a  pitch- 
'  plaster  on  the  mouth  o'  th'  pump  sir, 
'  and  says  he's  done  for  his  wust 

*  henemy  sir.  Yes  sir.  And  then  they 

*  finds  him  a-sittin'  on  the  top  o'  the 

*  com- chest  sir,  yes  sir,  a  crammin'  a 

*  old  pistol  with  wisps  o'  hay  and 
'  horse-beans  sir,  and  swearin'  he's  a 

*  goin'  to  blow  hisself  to  hattoms,  yes 

*  sir,  but  he  doesn't,  no  sir.    For  I 

*  sees  him  arterwards  a  lyin'  on  the 


*  straw  a  manifactrin'  Bengal  cheroots 

*  out  o'  corn-chaff  sir  and  swearin' 
'  he'd  make  'em  smoke  sir,  but  they 

*  hulloxed  him  off  round  by  the  corner 

*  of  Drummins's-s-s-s-s-s  sir,  just  afore 

*  I  come  here  sir,  yes  sir.  And  so  you 

*  never  see'd  us  together  sir,  no  sir.' 
This  was  the  remarkable  dialect  in 
which  Dickens  wrote  from  Broadstairs 

on  the  13th  of  July.    *  About  Satur-  Letter  in 

*  day  sir,  ?— Why  sir,  I'm  a-going  to  character. 

*  Folkestone  a  Saturday  sir  ! — not  on 

*  accounts  of  the  manifacktring  of 

*  Bengal  cheroots  as  there  is  there  but 

*  for  the  survayin'  o'  the  coast  sir. 

*  'Cos  you  see  sir,  bein'  here  sir,  and 

*  not  a  finishin'  my  work  sir  till  to- 

*  morrow  sir,  I  couldn't  go  afore  ! 

*  And  if  I  wos  to  come  home,  and  not 
'  go,  and  come  back  agin  sir,  wy  it 

*  would  be  nat'rally  a  hulloxing  of  my- 

'  self  sir.    Yes  sir.    Wy  sir,  I  b'lieve  a  male 

*  that  the  gent  as  is  a  goin'  to  'stablish  Mrs.  Gam? 

*  hisself  sir,  in  the  autumn,  along  with  Harris!* 

*  me  round  the  corner  sir  (by  Drum- 
'  mins's-s-s-s-s-s  bank)  is  a  comin' 
'  down  to  Folkestone  Saturday  arter- 

*  noon  —Leech  by  name  sir — yes  sir — 

*  another  Jack  sir — and  if  you  wos  to 

*  come  down  along  with  him  sir  by  the 

*  train  as  gits  to  Folkestone  twenty 

*  minutes  arter  five,  you'd  find  me  a 

*  smoking  a  Bengal  cheroot  (made  of 

*  clover-chaff  and  horse-beans  sir)  on 

*  the  platform.    You  couldn't  spend 

*  your  arternoon  better  sir.  Dover, 

*  Sandgate,  Heme  Bay — they're  all  to 

*  be  wisited  sir,  most  probable,  till 

*  sich  times  as  a  'ouse  is  found  sir. 
'  Yes  sir.  Then  decide  to  come  sir, 
'  and  say  you  will,  and  do  it.  I  shall 
'  be  here  till  arter  post  time  Saturday 

*  morniu'  sir.    Come  on  then  I 

•  Sloppy 
*  His  X  mark.' 


62 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


Bon- 
church  ; 
1849. 


Jam 
Whi 


Mirth  and 
melan- 
choly. 


Land- 
marks 0/ 
History  ; 
and 

Eighteen 
Christian 
Centuries. 


Mrs.  James 
White. 


*  going  off  to  Weymouth  or  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  both,  early  the 

*  next  morning.'    A  few  days  after,  his  choice  was  made. 

He  had  taken  a  house  at  Bonchurch,  attracted  there  by  the 
friend  who  had  made  it  a  place  of  interest  for  him  during  the  last 
few  years,  the  Reverend  James  White,  with  whose  name  and  its 
associations  my  mind  connects  inseparably  many  of  Dickens's 
happiest  hours.  To  pay  him  fitting  tribute  would  not  be  easy,  if 
here  it  were  called  for.  In  the  kindly  shrewd  Scotch  face,  a  keen 
sensitiveness  to  pleasure  and  pain  was  the  first  thing  that  struck 
any  common  observer.  Cheerfulness  and  gloom  coursed  over  it 
so  rapidly  that  no  one  could  question  the  tale  they  told.  But  the 
relish  of  his  life  had  outlived  its  more  than  usual  share  of  sorrows ; 
and  quaint  sly  humour,  love  of  jest  and  merriment,  capital  know- 
ledge of  books,  and  sagacious  quips  at  men,  made  his  companion- 
ship delightful.  Like  his  life,  his  genius  was  made  up  of  alternations 
of  mirth  and  melancholy.  He  would  be  immersed,  at  one  time, 
in  those  darkest  Scottish  annals  from  which  he  drew  his  tragedies ; 
and  overflowing,  at  another,  into  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin's  exuberant 
farce.  The  tragic  histories  may  probably  perish  with  the  actor's 
perishable  art ;  but  three  little  abstracts  of  history  written  at  a 
later  time  in  prose,  with  a  sunny  clearness  of  narration  and  a  glow 
of  picturesque  interest  to  my  knowledge  unequalled  in  books  of 
such  small  pretension,  will  find,  I  hope,  a  lasting  place  in  litera- 
ture. They  are  filled  with  felicities  of  phrase,  with  breadth  of 
understanding  and  judgment,  with  manful  honesty,  quiet  sagacity, 
and  a  constant  cheerful  piety,  valuable  for  all  and  priceless  for  the 
young.  Another  word  I  permit  myself  to  add.  With  Dickens, 
White  was  popular  supremely  for  his  eager  good  fellowship  ;  and 
few  men  brought  him  more  of  what  he  always  liked  to  receive. 
But  he  brought  nothing  so  good  as  his  wife.    *  He  is  excellent, 

*  but  she  is  better,'  is  the  pithy  remark  of  his  first  Bonchurch 
letter ;  and  the  true  affection  and  respect  that  followed  is  happily 
still  borne  her  by  his  daughters. 

Of  course  there  is  something  strange  to  be  recorded  of  the 
Bonchurch  hoHday,  but  it  does  not  come  till  nearer  the  ending  ; 
and,  with  more  attention  to  Mrs.  Malaprop's  advice  to  begin  with 
a  little  aversion,  might  probably  not  have  come  at  all.    He  began 


§  III.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


63 


with  an  excess  of  liking.    Of  the  Undercliff  he  was  full  of  admira-  bon- 

^  ^         _  CHURCH  : 

tion.  *  From  the  top  of  the  highest  downs/  he  wrote  in  his  second  ^849- 
letter  (28th  of  July)'  *  there  are  views  which  are  only  to  be  First  im- 

^  J  pressions  of 

*  equalled  on  the  Genoese  shore  of  the  Mediterranean ;  the 

*  variety  of  walks  is  extraordinary ;  things  are  cheap,  and  every- 

*  body  is  civil.    The  waterfall  acts  wonderfully,  and  the  sea 

*  bathing  is  delicious.     Best  of  all,  the  place  is  certainly  cold 

*  rather  than  hot,  in  the  summer  time.    The  evenings  have  been 

*  even  chilly.  White  very  jovial,  and  emulous  of  the  inimitable  in 
'  respect  of  gin-punch.    He  had  made  some  for  our  arrival.   Ha  ! 

*  ha  !  not  bad  for  a  beginner ...  I  have  been,  and  am,  trying  to 
'  work  this  morning ;  but  I  can't  make  anything  of  it,  and  am 

*  going  out  to  think.    I  am  invited  by  a  distinguished  friend  to 

*  dine  with  you  on  the  first  of  August,  but  I  have  pleaded  distance 

*  and  the  being  resident  in  a  cave  on  the  sea  shore  j  my  food, 
'  beans  ;  my  drink,  the  water  from  the  rock  ...  I  must  pluck  up 

*  heart  of  grace  to  write  to  Jeffrey,  of  whom  I  had  but  poor 

*  accounts  from  Gordon  just  before  leaving.  Talfourd  delightful, 
'  and  amuses  me  mightily.    I  am  really  quite  enraptured  at  his 

*  success,  and  think  of  his  happiness  with  uncommon  pleasure.' 

Our  friend  was  now  on  the  bench :  which  he  adorned  with  Talfourd 

made  a 

qualities  that  are  justly  the  pride  of  that  profession,  and  with  j"dge. 
accomplishments  which  have  become  more  rare  in  its  highest 
places  than  they  were  in  former  times.  His  elevation  only  made 
those  virtues  better  known.  Talfourd  assumed  nothing  with  the 
ermine  but  the  privilege  of  more  frequent  intercourse  with  the 
tastes  and  friends  he  loved,  and  he  continued  to  be  the  most 
joyous  and  least  affected  of  companions.  Such  small  oddities  or 
foibles  as  he  had  made  him  secretly  only  dearer  to  Dickens, 
v/ho  had  no  friend  he  was  more  attached  to ;  and  the  many  Dickens's 

affection 

happy  nights  made  happier  by  the  voice  so  affluent  in  generous  f""-  him- 
words,  and  the  face  so  bright  with  ardent  sensibility,  come  back 
to  me  sorrowfully  now.    *  Deaf  the  prais'd  ear,  and  mute  the 
'  tuneful  tongue.'    The  poet's  line  has  a  double  application  and 
sadness. 

He  wrote  again  on  the  first  of  August.    *  I  have  just  begun  to 

*  get  into  work.    We  are  expecting  the  Queen  to  come  by  very 


64 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


Bon- 
church  ; 
1849. 


Touching 
letter  from 
Jeffrey. 


Church- 
school  ex- 
amination. 


Dinners 
And  pic- 
uics. 


'  soon,  in  grand  array,  and  are  going  to  let  off  ever  so  many  guns. 

*  I  had  a  letter  from  Jeffrey  yesterday  morning,  just  as  I  was  going 
'  to  write  to  him.    He  has  evidently  been  very  ill,  and  I  begin  to 

*  have  fears  for  his  recovery.    It  is  a  very  pathetic  letter,  as  to  his 

*  state  of  mind ;  but  only  in  a  tranquil  contemplation  of  death, 

*  which  I  think  very  noble.'  His  next  letter,  four  days  later,  de- 
scribed himself  as  continuing  still  at  work ;  but  also  taking  part 
in  dinners  at  Blackgang,  and  picnics  of  '  tremendous  success ' 
on  Shanklin  Down.    *Two  charity  sermons  for  the  school  are 

*  preached  to-day,  and  I  go  to  the  afternoon  one.  The  examination 
'  of  said  school  t'other  day  was  very  funny.    All  the  boys  made 

*  Buckstone's  bow  in  the  Rough  Diamond^  and  some  in  a  very 

*  wonderful  manner  recited  pieces  of  poetry,  about  a  clock,  and 

*  may  we  be  like  the  clock,  which  is  always  a  going  and  a  doing 
'  of  its  duty,  and  always  tells  the  truth  (supposing  it  to  be  a  slap- 

*  up  chronometer  I  presume,  for  the  American  clock  in  the  school 

*  was  lying  frightfully  at  that  moment) ;  and  after  being  bothered 

*  to  death  by  the  multiplication  table,  they  were  refreshed  with  a 

*  public  tea  in  Lady  Jane  Swinburne's  garden.'  (There  was  a  re- 
ference in  one  of  ?iis  letters,  but  I  have  lost  it,  to  a  golden-haired 
lad  of  the  Swinburnes  whom  his  own  boys  used  to  play  with,  since 
become  more  widely  known.)    *  The  rain  came  in  with  the  first 

*  tea-pot,  and  has  been  active  ever  since.    On  Friday  we  had  a 

*  grand,  and  what  is  better,  a  very  good  dinner  at  "  parson " 

*  Fielden's,  with  some  choice  port  On  Tuesday  we  are  going  on 
'  another  picnic ;  with  the  materials  for  a  fire,  at  my  express 

*  stipulation ;  and  a  great  iron  pot  to  boil  potatoes  in.  These 

*  things,  and  the  eatables,  go  to  the  ground  in  a  cart.    Last  night 

*  we  had  some  very  good  merriment  at  White's,  where  pleasant 
'  Julian  Young  and  his  wife  (who  are  staying  about  five  miles  off) 

*  showed  some  droll  new  games  ' — and  roused  the  ambition  in  my 
friend  to  give  a  *  mighty  conjuring  performance  for  all  the  children 
'  in  Bonchurch/  for  which  I  sent  him  the  materials  and  which 
went  off  in  a  tumult  of  wild  delight.  To  the  familiar  names  in 
this  letter  I  will  add  one  more,  grieving  freshly  even  now  to  con- 
nect it  with  suffering.    *  A  letter  from  Poole  has  reached  me  since 

*  I  began  this  letter,  with  tidings  in  it  that  you  will  be  very  sorry 


§  III.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


65 


*  to  hear.    Poor  Regnier  has  lost  his  only  child ;  the  pretty  Bon- 

CHURCH \ 

*  daughter  who  dined  with  us  that  nice  day  at  your  house,  when  1849. 
'  we  all  pleased  the  poor  mother  by  admiring  her  so  much.  She 

*  died  of  a  sudden  attack  of  malignant  typhus.    Poole  was  at  the  ^^egnier. 

*  funeral,  and  writes  that  he  never  saw,  or  could  have  imagined, 
'  such  intensity  of  grief  as  Regnier's  at  the  grave.     How  one 

*  loves  him  for  it.    But  is  it  not  always  true,  in  comedy  and  in 

*  tragedy,  that  the  more  real  the  man  the  more  genuine  the 

*  actor  ? ' 

After  a  few  more  days  I  heard  of  progress  with  his  writing  in 
spite  of  all  festivities.  *  I  have  made  it  a  rule  that  the  inimitable 
'  is  invisible,  until  two  every  day.  I  shall  have  half  the  number 
'  done,  please  God,  to-morrow.    I  have  not  worked  quickly  here  Progress  in 

'  ^  ^  writing. 

*  yet,  but  I  don't  know  what  I  may  do.    Divers  cogitations  have 

*  occupied  my  mind  at  intervals,  respecting  the  dim  design.'  The 
design  was  the  weekly  periodical  so  often  in  his  thoughts,  of 
which  more  will  appear  in  my  next  chapter.  His  letter  closed 
with  intimations  of  discomfort  in  his  health ;  of  an  obstinate 
cough ;  and  of  a  determination  he  had  formed  to  mount  daily  to 
the  top  of  the  downs.  'It  makes  a  great  difference  in  the 
'  climate  to  get  a  blow  there  and  come  down  again.'  Then  I 
heard  of  the  doctor  '  stethoscoping '  him,  of  his  hope  that  all  was 
right  in  that  quarter,  and  of  rubbings  '  k  la  St.  John  Long '  being 
ordered  for  his  chest    But  the  mirth  still  went  on.    *  There  has 

*  been  a  Doctor  Lankester  at  Sandown,  a  very  good  merry  fellow, 

*  who  has  made  one  at  the  picnics,  and  whom  I  went  over  and 
'  dined  with,  along  with  Danby  (I  remember  your  liking  for 

*  Danby,  and  don't  wonder  at  it),  Leech,  and  White.'  A  letter 
towards  the  close  of  August  resumed  yet  more  of  his  ordinary . 
tone.    '  We  had  games  and  forfeits  last  night  at  White's.    Davy  Personal 

*  Roberts's  pretty  little  daughter  is  there  for  a  week,  witli  her 
'  husband,  Bicknell's  son.  There  was  a  dinner  first  to  say  good- 
'  bye  to  Danby,  who  goes  to  other  clergyman's-duty,  and  we  were 

*  very  merry.  Mrs.  White  unchanging  ;  White  comically  various 
'  in  his  moods.    Talfourd  comes  down  next  Tuesday,  and  we 

*  think  of  going  over  to  Ryde  on  Monday,  visiting  the  play, 
<  sleeping  there  (I  don't  mean  at  the  play)  and  bringing  the  Judge 

yoL.  II.  F 


66 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vi. 


Bon-  *  back.  Browne  is  coming  down  when  he  has  done  his  month's 
1849.     *  work.    Should  you  like  to  go  to  Alum  Bay  while  you  are  here  ? 

*  It  would  involve  a  night  out,  but  I  think  would  be  very  pleasant ; 

*  and  if  you  think  so  too,  I  will  arrange  it  sub  rosa,  so  that  we 
'  may  not  be,  like  Bobadil,  "  oppressed  by  numbers. I  mean  to 
'  take  a  fly  over  from  Shanklin  to  meet  you  at  Ryde ;  so  that  we 
'  can  walk  back  from  Shanklin  over  the  landslip,  where  the 

Arrivals      *  sccncry  is  wonderfully  beautiful.    Stone  and  Egg  are  coming 

and  de- 
partures.     <  next  month,  and  we  hope  to  see  Jerrold  before  we  go.'  Such 

notices  from  his  letters  may  be  thought  hardly  worth  preserving : 
but  a  wonderful  vitality  in  every  circumstance,  as  long  as  life 
under  any  conditions  remained  to  the  writer,  is  the  picture  they 
contribute  to;  nor  would  it  be  complete  without  the  addition, 
that  fond  as  he  was,  in  the  intervals  of  his  work,  of  this  abund- 
ance and  variety  of  enjoyments,  to  no  man  were  so  essential  also 
those  quieter  hours  of  thought,  and  talk,  not  obtainable  when 
'  oppressed  by  numbers.' 
A  stalling  My  visit  was  duc  at  the  opening  of  September,  but  a  few  days 
earlier  came  the  full  revelation  of  which  only  a  passing  shadow 
had  reached  in  two  or  three  previous  letters.    *  Before  I  think  of 

*  beginning  my  next  number,  I  perhaps  cannot  do  better  than 

*  give  you  an  imperfect  description  of  the  results  of  the  climate  of 

*  Bonchurch  after  a  few  weeks'  residence.  The  first  salubrious 
'  effect  of  which  the  Patient  becomes  conscious  is  an  almost 

*  continual  feeling  of  sickness,  accompanied  with  great  prostration 
'  of  strength,  so  that  his  legs  tremble  under  him,  and  his  arms 
'  quiver  when  he  wants  to  take  hold  of  any  object    An  extra- 
Effect  of     '  ordinary  disposition  to  sleep  (except  at  night,  when  his  rest,  in 

Bonchurch  .  . 

climate.       <■  the  cvent  of  his  having  any,  is  broken  by  incessant  dreams)  is 
'  always  present  at  the  same  time ;  and,  if  he  have  anything  to  do 

*  requiring  thought  and  attention,  this  overpowers  him  to  such  a 
'  degree  that  he  can  only  do  it  in  snatches :  lying  down .  on  beds 
'  in  the  fitful  intervals.    Extreme  depression  of  mind,  and  a  dis- 

*  position  to  shed  tears  from  morning  to  night,  developes  itself  at 

*  the  same  period.    If  the  Patient  happen  to  have  been  a  good 

*  walker,  he  finds  ten  miles  an  insupportable  distance ;  in  the 

*  achievement  of  which  his  legs  are  so  unsteady,  that  he  goes  from 


§  III.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


67 


*  side  to  side  of  the  road,  like  a  drunken  man.    If  he  happen  to  bon- 

church: 

*  have  ever  possessed  any  energy  of  any  kind,  he  finds  it  quenched  ^849- 
<  in  a  dull,  stupid  languor.    He  has  no  purpose,  power,  or  object 

*  in  existence  whatever.   When  he  brushes  his  hair  in  the  morning,  Prostration. 

*  he  is  so  weak  that  he  is  obliged  to  sit  upon  a  chair  to  do  it.  He 

*  is  incapable  of  reading,  at  all  times.  And  his  bilious  system  is 
'  so  utterly  overthrown,  that  a  ball  of  boiling  fat  appears  to  be 

*  always  behind  the  top  of  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  simmering 

*  between  his  haggard  eyes.    If  he  should  have  caught  a  cold,  he 

*  will  find  it  impossible  to  get  rid  of  it,  as  his  system  is  wholly 

*  incapable  of  making  any  effort.    His  cough  will  be  deep, 

*  monotonous,  and  constant.      The  faithful  watch-dog's  honest 

*  *'  bark  "  will  be  nothing  to  it.    He  will  abandon  all  present  idea 

*  of  overcoming  it,  and  will  content  himself  with  keeping  an  eye 

*  upon  his  blood-vessels  to  preserve  them  whole  and  sound. 

*  Patienfs  name.  Inimitable  B.  .  .  .  It's  a  mortal  mistake  ! — That's 

*  the  plain  fact    Of  all  the  places  I  ever  have  been  in,  I  have 

*  never  been  in  one  so  difficult  to  exist  in,  pleasantly.  Naples  is  ^^•^gn/e'^"' 
'  hot  and  dirty.  New  York  feverish,  Washington  bilious,  Genoa 

'■  exciting,  Paris  rainy — but  Bonchurch,  smashing.    I  am  quite 

*  convinced  that  I  should  die  here,  in  a  year.    It's  not  hot,  it's 

*  not  close,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  the  prostration  of  it  is 

*  awful.    Nobody  here  has  the  least  idea  what  I  think  of  it  j  but 

*  I  find  from  all  sorts  of  hints  from  Kate,  Georgina,  and  the 

*  Leeches,  that  they  are  all  affected  more  or  less  in  the  same  way, 

*  and  find  it  very  difficult  to  make  head  against.    I  make  no  sign, 

*  and  pretend  not  to  know  what  is  going  on.    But  they  are  right 

*  I  believe  the  Leeches  will  go  soon,  and  small  blame  to  'em  ! — 

*  For  me,  when  I  leave  here  at  the  end  of  this  September,  I  must 
'  go  down  to  some  cold  place  ;  as  Ramsgate  for  example,  for  a 

*  week  or  two  ;  or  I  seriously  believe  I  shall  feel  the  effects  of  it 

*  for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  that  1  .  ,  .  The 

*  longer  I  live,  the  more  I  doubt  the  doctors.    I  am  perfectly 

*  convinced,  that,  for  people  suffering  under  a  wasting  disease, 

*  this  Underclifif  is  madness  altogether.    The  doctors,  with  the 

*  old  miserable  folly  of  looking  at  one  bit  of  a  subject,  take  the  Distrust  of 

*  patient's  lungs  and  the  Undercliff's  air,  and  settle  solemnly  that 


68 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Bon-     ^  they  are  fit  for  each  other.    But  the  whole  influence  of  the 

CHURCH  :  .  ... 

1849.     *  place,  never  taken  into  consideration,  is  to  reduce  and  over- 

*  power  vitality.    I  am  quite  confident  that  I  should  go  down 

*  under  it,  as  if  it  were  so  much  lead,  slowly  crushing  me.  An 

*  American  resident  in  Paris  many  years,  who  brought  me  a  letter 

*  from  Olliffe,  said,  the  day  before  yesterday,  that  he  had  always 

*  had  a  passion  for  the  sea  never  to  be  gratified  enough,  but  that 

*  after  living  here  a  month,  he  could  not  bear  to  look  at  it ;  he 
'  couldn't  endure  the  sound  of  it ;  he  didn't  know  how  it  was,  but 

*  it  seemed  associated  with  the  decay  of  his  whole  powers.' 
These  were  grave  imputations  against  one  of  the  prettiest  places 
in  England;  but  of  the  generally  depressing  influence  of  that 
Undercliff"  on  particular  temperaments,  I  had  already  enough 
experience  to  abate  something  of  the  surprise  with  which  I  read 

Other  side    the  letter.    What  it  too  bluntly  puts  aside  are  the  sufferings  other 

of  picture. 

than  his  own,  protected  and  sheltered  by  what  only  aggravated 
his ;  but  my  visit  gave  me  proof  that  he  had  really  very  little 
overstated  the  eff"ect  upon  himself  Making  allowance,  which 
sometimes  he  failed  to  do,  for  special  peculiarities,  and  for  the 
excitability  never  absent  when  he  had  in  hand  an  undertaking 
such  as  Copperfield,  there  was  a  nervous  tendency  to  misgivings 
and  apprehensions  to  the  last  degree  unusual  with  him,  which 
seemed  to  make  the  commonest  things  difficult ;  and  though  he 
stayed  out  his  time,  and  brought  away  nothing  that  his  happier 
associations  with  the  place  and  its  residents  did  not  long  survive, 
he  never  returned  to  Bonchurch. 

In  the  month  that  remained  he  completed  his  fifth  number,  and 
with  the  proof  there  came  the  reply  to  some  questions  of  which  I 
hardly  remember  more  than  that  they  referred  to  doubts  having 
reference,  among  other  things,  to  the  propriety  of  the  kind  of 
JJ.^J^ck's   delusion  he  had  first  given  to  poor  Mr.  Dick,*  which  appeared  to 

delusion. 

*  It  Stood  originally  thus  :  '  "  Do  '  prised  by  the  inquiry ;  but  remem- 

'  "you  recollect  the  date."  said  Mr.  '  bering  a  song  about  such  an  occur- 

*  Dick,  looking  earnestly  at  me,  and  '  rence   that   was   once   popular  at 

*  taking  up  his  pen  to  note  it  down,  '  Salem  House,  and  thinking  he  might 

*  "  when  that  bull  got  into  the  china  '  want  to  quote  it,  replied  that  I  be- 

*  "  warehouse  and  did  so  much  mis-  '  lieved  it  was  on  St.  Patrick's  Day. 
♦''chief?"     I  was  very  much  sur-  *  "Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dick-:- 


§  III.] 


Seaside  Holidays. 


69 


be  a  little  too  farcical  for  that  really  touching  delineation  of  Bon- 

_        °  CHURCH  : 

character.    *Your  suggestion  is  perfectly  wise  and  sound/  he  ^^49- 
wrote  back  (22nd  of  August).    *I  have  acted  on  it.    I  have  also, 

*  instead  of  the  bull  and  china-shop  delusion,  given  Dick  the  idea, 

*  that,  when  the  head  of  king  Charles  the  First  was  cut  off,  some 

*  of  the  trouble  was  taken  out  of  it,  and  put  into  his  (Dick's)/ 
When  he  next  wrote,  there  was  news  very  welcome  to  me  for  the 
pleasure  to  himself  it  involved.    *  Browne  has  sketched  an  un-  Browne's 

sketch  for 

*  commonly  characteristic  and  capital  Mr.  Micawber  for  the  next  Micawber 

*  number.    I  hope  the  present  number  is  a  good  one.    I  hear 

*  nothing  but  pleasant  accounts  of  the  general  satisfaction.'  The 
same  letter  told  me  of  an  intention  to  go  to  Broadstairs,  put  aside 
by  doubtful  reports  of  its  sanitary  condition  ;  but  it  will  be  seen 
presently  that  there  was  another  graver  interruption.  With  his 
work  well  off  his  hands,  however,  he  had  been  getting  on  better 
where  he  was;  and  they  had  all  been  very  merry.  'Yes,'  he 
said,  writing  after  a  couple  of  days  (23rd  of  September),  *  we  have 

*  been  sufficiently  rollicking  since  I  finished  the  number ;  and 
'  have  had  great  games  at  rounders  every  afternoon,  with  all  Bon- 

*  church  looking  on ;  but  I  begin  to  long  for  a  little  peace  and 

*  solitude.    And  now  for  my  less  pleasing  piece  of  news.  The 

*  sea  has  been  running  very  high,  and  Leech,  while  bathing,  was 

*  knocked  over  by  a  bad  blow  from  a  great  wave  on  the  forehead. 

*  He  is  in  bed,  and  had  twenty  of  his  namesakes  on  his  temples  Accident  to 

*  this  morning.    When  I  heard  of  him  just  now,  he  was  asleep — 

*  which  he  had  not  been  all  night.'  He  closed  his  letter  hope- 
fully, but  next  day  (24th  September)  I  had  less  favourable  report. 

*  Leech  has  been  very  ill  with  congestion  of  the  brain  ever  since 

*  I  wrote,  and  being  still  in  excessive  pain  has  had  ice  to  his 

*  head  continuously,  and  been  bled  in  the  arm  besides.  Beard 

*  and  I  sat  up  there,  all  night.'    On  the  26th  he  wrote.    *  My 

*  plans  are  all  unsettled  by  Leech's  illness  ;  as  of  course  1  do  not  Its  conse- 

*  like  to  leave  this  place  while  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  him  and 
'  his  good  little  wife.    But  all  visitors  are  gone  to-day,  and 


*  **  in  the  morning;  but  what  year?"  I  could  give  no  information  on  this 

•  point.'  Original  MS.  of  Coppcrfield. 


70 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Bon-  *  Winterboiirne  once  more  left  to  the  engaging  family  of  the 
1849  '  mimitable  B.  Ever  since  I  wrote  to  you  Leech  has  been 
'  seriously  worse,  and  again  very  heavily  bled.  The  night  before 
'  last  he  was  in  such  an  alarming  state  of  restlessness,  which  nothing 
'  could  relieve,  that  I  proposed  to  Mrs.  Leech  to  try  magnetism. 
'  Accordingly,  in  the  middle  of  the  night  I  fell  to  \  and,  after  a 
'  very  fatiguing  bout  of  it,  put  him  to  sleep  for  an  hour  and  thirty- 
jg""  *  five  minutes.  A  change  came  on  in  the  sleep,  and  he  is 
'  decidedly  better.    I  talked  to  the  astounded  little  Mrs.  Leech 

*  across  him,  when  he  was  asleep,  as  if  he  had  been  a  truss  of  hay. 

*  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  my  setting  up  in  the  magnetic  line 
'  with  a  large  brass  plate  ?    "  Terms,  twenty-five  guineas  per 

*  "nap."  '  When  he  wrote  on  the  30th,  he  had  completed  his  sixth 
number ;  and  his  friend  was  so  clearly  on  the  way  to  recovery 
that  he  was  himself  next  day  to  leave  for  Broadstairs  with  his 
wife,  her  sister,  and  the  two  little  girls.  '  I  will  merely  add  that  I 
'  entreat  to  be  kindly  remembered  to  Thackeray  '  (who  had  a 
dangerous  illness  at  this  time) ;  *  that  I  think  I  have,  without  a 
'  doubt,  got  the  Periodical  notion  ;  and  that  I  am  writing  under 
'  the  depressing  and  discomforting  influence  of  paying  off  the 
'  tribe  of  bills  that  pour  in  upon  an  unfortunate  family-young  man 
'  on  the  eve  of  a  residence  like  this.    So  no  more  at  present 

*  from  the  disgusted,  though  still  inimitable,  and  always  affec- 

*  tionate  B.' 

TA'Rs^  He  stayed  at  Broadstairs  till  he  had  finished  his  number  seven, 
and  what  else  chiefly  occupied  him  were  thoughts  about  the 
Periodical  of  which  account  will  presently  be  given.    *  Such  a 

*  night  and  day  of  rain,'  ran  his  first  letter,  *  I  should  think  the 
'  oldest  inhabitant  never  saw !  and  yet,  in  the  ould  formiliar 
'  Broadstairs,  I  somehow  or  other  don't  mind  it  much.  The 
'  change  has  done  Mamey  a  world  of  good,  and  I  have  begun  to 
'  sleep  again.  As  for  news,  you  might  as  well  ask  me  for 
'  dolphins.  Nobody  in  Broadstairs — to  speak  of.  Certainly  no- 
'  body  in  Ballard's.  We  are  in  the  part,  which  is  the  house  next 
'  door  to  the  hotel  itself,  that  we  once  had  for  three  years 
'  running,  and  just  as  quiet  and  snug  now  as  it  was  then.  I 

*  don't  think  I  shall  return  before  the  ^oth  or  so,  when  the 


§  ni.] 


Seaside  Holiday^s. 


*  number  is  done;  but  I  may,  in  some  inconstant  freak,  run  up  to  Broad- 

STAIKS: 

*  you  before.    Prelimmary  despatches  and  advices  shall  be  for-  1849. 

*  warded  in  any  case  to  the  fragrant  neighbourhood  of  Clare- 

*  market  and  the  Portugal-street  burying-ground.'  Such  was  his 
polite  designation  of  my  whereabouts  :  for  which  nevertheless  he 

had  secret  likings.    *  On  the  Portsmouth  railway,  coming  here,  Railway 

travellers. 

*  encountered  Kenyon.    On  the  ditto  ditto  at  Reigate,  en- 

*  countered  young  Dilke,  and  took  him  in  tow  to  Canterbury. 

*  On  the  ditto  ditto  at  ditto  (meaning  Reigate),  encountered 

*  Fox,  M.P.  for  Oldham,  and  his  daughter.    All  within  an  hour. 

*  Young  Dilke  great  about  the  proposed  Exposition  under  the 
'  direction  of  H.R.H.  Prince  Albert,  and  evincing,  very  pleasantly 
'  to  me,  unbounded  faith  in  our  old  friend  his  father.'  There 
was  one  more  letter,  taking  a  rather  gloomy  view  of  public  affairs 
in  connection  with  an  inflated  pastoral  from  Doctor  Wiseman 

*  given  out  of  the  Flaminian  Gate,'  and  speaking  dolefully  of 
some  family  matters ;  which  was  subscribed,  each  word  forming 
a  separate  line,  *  Yours  Despondently,  And  Disgustedly,  Wilkins 
'  Micawber.' 

His  visit  to  the  little  watering-place  in  the  following  year  was  Again  at 
signalised  by  his  completion  of  the  most  famous  of  his  novels,  and  Stairs  : 
his  letters  otherwise  were  occupied  by  elaborate  managerial  pre- 
paration  for  the  private  performances  at  Knebworth.    But  again 
the  plague  of  itinerant  music  flung  him  into  such  fevers  of  irrita- 
tion, that  he  finally  resolved  against  any  renewed  attempt  to  carry 
on  important  work  here  ;  and  the  summer  of  1851,  when  he  was 
busy  with  miscellaneous  writing  only,  was  the  last  of  his  regular 
residences  in  the  place.    He  then  let  his  London  house  for  the  The  Exhi- 
brief  remainder  of  its  term ;  running  away  at  the  end  of  May,  185?" 
when  some  grave  family  sorrows  had  befallen  him,  from  the 
crowds  and  excitements  of  the  Great  Exhibition  ;  and  I  will  only 
add  generally  of  these  seaside  residences  that  his  reading  was  Hisread- 
considerable  and  very  various  at  such  intervals  of  labour.  One 
of  them,  as  I  remember,  took  in  all  the  minor  tales  as  well  as  the 
plays  of  Voltaire,  several  of  the  novels  (old  favourites  with  him) 
of  Paul  de  Kock,  Ruskin's  Lamps  of  Architecture,  and  a  surprising 
number  of  books  of  African  and  other  travel  for  which  he  had 


72 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VL 


UkOAb- 
STAiRS ; 

I85I. 


A  correc- 
tion for 
Carlyle. 


Mumbo 
Jumbo. 


Haw- 
thorne's 
Scarlet 
Letter. 


Good 
criticism. 


insatiable  relish :  but  there  was  never  much  notice  of  his  reading 
in  his  letters.  *  By  the  bye,  I  observe,  reading  that  wonderful 
'  book  the  French  Revolution  again  for  the    500th  time,  that 

*  Carlyle,  who   knows   everything,  don't  know  what  Mumbo 

*  Jumbo  is.  It  is  not  an  Idol.  It  is  a  secret  preserved  among 
'  the  men  of  certain  African  tribes,  and  never  revealed  by  any  of 

*  them,  for  the  punishment  of  their  women.    Mumbo  Jumbo 

*  comes  in  hideous  form  out  of  the  forest,  or  the  mud,  or  the 
'  river,  or  where  not,  and  flogs  some  woman  who  has  been  back- 
'■  biting,  or  scolding,  or  with  some  other  domestic  mischief  dis- 
'  turbing  the  general  peace.  Carlyle  seems  to  confound  him  with 
'  the  common  Fetish ;  but  he  is  quite  another  thing.  He  is  a 
'  disguised  man  ;  and  all  about  him  is  a  freemasons'  secret  among 
'  the  men.' — '  I  finished  the  Scarlet  Letter  yesterday.    It  falls  off 

*  sadly  after  that  fine  opening  scene.    The  psychological  part  of 

*  the  story  is  very  much  overdone,  and  not  truly  done  I  think. 
'  Their  suddenness  of  meeting  and  agreeing  to  go  away  together, 
'  after  all  those  years,  is  very  poor.  Mr.  Chillingworth  ditto.  The 
'  child  out  of  nature  altogether.  And  Mr.  Dimmisdale  certainly 
'  never  could  have  begotten  her.'  In  Mr.  Hawthorne's  earHer 
books  he  had  taken  especial  pleasure ;  his  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse  having  been  the  first  book  he  placed  in  my  hands  on  his 
return  from  America,  with  reiterated  injunctions  to  read  it.  I 
will  add  a  word  or  two  of  what  he  wrote  of  the  clever  story  of 
another  popular  writer,  because  it  hits  well  the  sort  of  ability  that 
has  become  so  common,  which  escapes  the  highest  point  of 
cleverness,  but  stops  short  only  at  the  very  verge  of  it.  *The 
'  story  extremely  good  indeed;  but  all  the  strongest  things  of 

*  which  it  is  capable,  missed.  It  shows  just  how  far  that  kind  of 
'  power  can  go.  It  is  more  like  a  note  of  the  idea  than  anything 
'  else.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  written  by  somebody  who 
'  lived  next  door  to  the  people,  rather  than  inside  of 'em.' 


§  IV.]         Last  of  the  Christmas  Books. 


IV. 

CHRISTMAS  BOOKS  CLOSED  AND  HOUSEHOLD 
WORDS  BEGUN. 

1848— 1850. 

It  has  been  seen  that  his  fancy  for  his  Christmas  book  of  1848  ^^84 
first  arose  to  him  at  Lausanne  in  the  summer  of  1846,  and  that, 
after  writing  its  opening  pages  in  the  autumn  of  the  following 
year,  he  laid  it  aside  under  the  pressure  of  his  Dombey.  These 
lines  were  in  the  letter  that  closed  his  1848  Broadstairs  holiday.  Broad- 

*  At  last  I  am  a  mentally  matooring  of  the  Christmas  book — or, 

*  as  poor  Macrone  *  used  to  write,  "  booke,"  "  boke,"  "  buke," 

*  &c.'    It  was  the  first  labour  to  which  he  appHed  himself  at  his 
return. 

In  London  it  soon  came  to  maturity  j  was  pubHshed  duly  as 


*  I  take  occasion  of  the  mention  of 
this  name  to  state  that  I  have  received 
in  reference  to  my  account  of  Dickens's 
repurchase  of  his  Sketches  from  Mr. 
Macrone  {ante,  i.  78-80),  a  letter  from 
the  solicitor  and  friend  of  that  gentle- 
man so  expressed  that  I  could  have 
greatly  wished  to  revise  that  narrative 
into  nearer  agreement  with  its  writer's 
wish.  But  farther  enquiry,  and  an 
examination  of  the  books  of  Messrs. 
Chapman  and  Hall,  have  confirmed 
the  statement  given.  Mr.  Hansard  is 
in  error  in  supposing  that  *  unsold  im- 
*  pressions '  of  the  books  were  included 
in  the  transaction  (the  necessary  re- 
quirement being  simply  that  the  small 
remainders  on  hand  should  be  trans- 
ferred with  a  view  to  being  *  wasted ')  : 
I  know  myself  that  the  sale  could  not 
have  included  any  supposed  right  of 
Mr.  Macrone  to  have  a  novel  written 
for  him,  because  upon  that  whole 
matter,  and  his  continued  unauthorised 
announcements  of  the  story  (as  Gabriel 
Varden  the  Locksmith,  the  first  name 
thought  of  for  Barnaby  KuJge),  1  de- 
cided myself  the  reference  against  him : 


and  Mr.  Hansard  may  be  assured  that  Friendly 
the  ;i{^20oo  was  paid  for  the  copyright 
alone.  For  the  same  copyright,  a  crone, 
year  before,  Dickens  had  received 
£2^0,  both  the  first  and  second  series 
being  included  in  the  payment ;  and 
he  had  already  had  about  the  same 
sum  as  his  half  share  of  the  profits  of 
sales.  I  quote  the  close  of  Mr.  Han- 
sard's letter.   '  Macrone  ho  doubt  was 

*  an  adventurer,  but  he  was  sanguine 
'  to  the  highest  degree.    He  was  a 

*  dreamer  of  dreams,  putting  no  re- 

*  straint  on  his  exultant  hopes  by  the 
'  reflection  that  he  was  not  dealing 

*  justly  towards  others.    But  reproach 

*  has  fallen  upon  him  from  wrong 

*  quarters.    He  died  in  poverty,  and 

*  his  creditors  received  nothing  from 

*  his  estate.    But  that  was  because  he 

*  had  paid  away  all  he  had,  and  all  he 
'  had  derived  from  trust  and  credit,  to 

*  authors.''  This  may  have  been  so, 
but  Dickens  was  not  among  the  authors 
so  benefited.  The  Sketches  rt^\xvc\\2i'<.Q(\ 
at  so  high  a  price  never  aftei  ivards 
really  justified  the  outlay. 


74 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  VI. 


London  ;   77?*?  Haunted  Man,  or  the  Ghosfs  Bargain  ;  sold  largely,  beginning 

1848. 

with  a  subscription  of  twenty  thousand ;  and  had  a  great  success 


of°chris-°"  on  the  Adelphi  stage,  to  which  it  was  rather  cleverly  adapted  by 
Lemon.  He  had  placed  on  its  title  page  originally  four  lines 
from  Tennyson's  'Departure.' 

*  And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

'  Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

*  Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

•  Thro'  all  the  world  IT  followed  him  ; ' 

but  they  were  less  applicable  to  the  close  than  to  the  opening  of 
the  tale,  and  were  dropped  before  publication.    The  hero  is  a 

The  hero.  gxQ-^X.  chcmist,  a  lecturer  at  an  old  foundation,  a  man  of  studious 
philosophic  habits,  haunted  with  recollections  of  the  past  '  o'er 
'  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood,'  thinking  his  knowledge  of 
the  present  a  worthier  substitute,  and  at  last  parting  with  that 
portion  of  himself  which  he  thinks  he  can  safely  cast  away.  The 
recollections  are  of  a  great  wrong  done  him  in  early  life,  and  of 
all  the  sorrow  consequent  upon  it ;  and  the  ghost  he  holds  nightly 
conference  with,  is  the  darker  presentment  of  himself  embodied 
in  those  bitter  recollections.  This  part  is  finely  managed.  Out 
of  heaped-up  images  of  gloomy  and  wintry  fancies,  the  super- 
natural takes  a  shape  which  is  not  forced  or  violent ;  and  the 
dialogue  which  is  no  dialogue,  but  a  kind  of  dreary  dreamy  echo, 
is  a  piece  of  ghostly  imagination  better  than  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  The 

•^g^n.*^^"^  boon  desired  is  granted  and  the  bargain  struck.  He  is  not  only 
to  lose  his  own  recollection  of  grief  and  wrong,  but  to  destroy  the 
like  memory  in  all  whom  he  approaches.  By  this  means  the 
effect  is  shown  in  humble  as  well  as  higher  minds,  in  the  worst 
poverty  as  in  competence  or  ease,  always  with  the  same  result 
The  over-thinking  sage  loses  his  own  affections  and  sympathy, 
sees  them  crushed  in  others,  and  is  brought  to  the  level  of  the 
only  creature  whom  he  cannot  change  or  influence,  an  outcast  of 
the  streets,  a  boy  whom  the  mere  animal  appetites  have  turned 
into  a  small  fiend.  Never  having  had  his  mind  awakened,  evil 
is  this  creature's  good ;  avarice,  irreverence,  and  vindictiveness, 
are  his  nature ;  sorrow  has  no  place  in  his  memory  ;  and  from  his 
brutish  propensities  the  philosopher  can  take  nothing  away.  The 


§  IV.]         Last  of  the  Christmas  Books. 


75 


juxtaposition  of  two  people  whom  such  opposite  means  have  put  London  : 

1848. 

in  the  same  moral  position  is  a  stroke  of  excellent  art.  There  

are  plenty  of  incredibilities  and  inconsistencies,  just  as  in  the 
pleasant  Cricket  on  the  Hearth^  which  we  do  not  care  about,  but 
enjoy  rather  than  otherwise  ;  and,  as  in  that  charming  little  book, 
there  were  minor  characters  as  delightful  as  anything  in  Dickens. 
The  Tetterby  group,  in  whose  humble,  homely,  kindly,  ungainly  J^^'^'^^' 
figures  there  is  everything  that  could  suggest  itself  to  a  clear  eye,  family, 
a  piercing  wit,  and  a  loving  heart,  became  enormous  favourites. 
Tilly  Slowboy  and  her  little  dot  of  a  baby,  charging  folks  with  it 
as  if  it  were  an  offensive  instrument,  or  handing  it  about  as 
if  it  were  something  to  drink,  were  not  more  popular  than 
poor  Johnny  Tetterby  staggering  under  his  Moloch  of  an  infant, 
the  Juggernaut  that  crushes  all  his  enjoyments.  The  story  itself 
consists  of  nothing  more  than  the  effects  of  the  Ghost's  gift  upon 
the  various  groups  of  people  introduced,  and  the  way  the  end  is 
arrived  at  is  very  specially  in  Dickens's  manner.  What  the 
highest  exercise  of  the  intellect  had  missed  is  found  in  the 
simplest  form  of  the  affections.  The  wife  of  the  custodian  of 
the  college  where  the  chemist  is  professor,  in  whom  are  all  the 
unselfish  virtues  that  can  beautify  and  endear  the  humblest  con- 
dition, is  the  instrument  of  the  change.  Such  sorrow  as  she  has 
suffered  had  made  her  only  zealous  to  relieve  others'  sufferings : 
and  the  discontented  wise  man  learns  from  her  example  that  the 
world  is,  after  all,  a  much  happier  compromise  than  it  seems  to  Teachings 

of  the 

be,  and  life  easier  than  wisdom  is  apt  to  think  it ;  that  grief  gives  ii"ie  story, 
joy  its  relish,  purifying  what  it  touches  truly ;  and  that  *  sweet  are 

*  the  uses  of  adversity '  when  its  clouds  are  not  the  shadow  of 
dishonour.  All  this  can  be  shown  but  lightly  within  such  space, 
it  is  true ;  and  in  the  machinery  a  good  deal  has  to  be  taken  for 
granted.  But  Dickens  was  quite  justified  in  turning  aside  from 
objections  of  that  kind.  '  You  must  suppose,'  he  wrote  to  me 
(21st  of  November),  'that  the  Ghost's  saving  clause  gives  him 
'  those  glimpses  without  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  carry 

*  out  the  idea.    Of  course  my  point  is  that  bad  and  good  are 

*  inextricably  linked  in  remembrance,  and  that  you  could  not 

*  choose  the  enjoyment  of  recollecting  only  the  good.    To  have 


76 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


London:   *  all  the  bcst  of  it  vou  must  remember  the  worst  also.  My 
1848.  ... 

*  intention  in  the  other  point  you  mention  is,  that  he  should  not 

*  know  himself  how  he  communicates  the  gift,  whether  by  look  or 

*  touch  j  and  that  it  should  diffuse  itself  in  its  own  way  in  each 

*  case.    I  can  make  this  clearer  by  a  very  few  lines  in  the  second 

*  part    It  is  not  only  necessary  to  be  so,  for  the  variety  of  the 

*  story,  but  I  think  it  makes  the  thing  wilder  and  stranger.' 
Critical  niceties  are  indeed  out  of  place,  where  wildness  and 
strangeness  of  means  matter  less  than  that  there  should  be 

Meaning  of  cleamess  of  drift  and  intention.    Dickens  leaves  no  doubt  as 

the  tale. 

to  this.  He  thoroughly  makes  out  his  fancy,  that  no  man  should 
so  far  question  the  mysterious  dispensations  of  evil  in  this  world 
as  to  desire  to  lose  the  recollection  of  such  injustice  or  misery  as 
he  may  suppose  it  to  have  done  to  himself.  There  may  have 
been  sorrow,  but  there  was  the  kindness  that  assuaged  it ;  there 
may  have  been  wrong,  but  there  was  the  charity  that  forgave  it ; 
and  with  both  are  connected  inseparably  so  many  thoughts  that 
soften  and  exalt  whatever  else  is  in  the  sense  of  memory,  that 
what  is  good  and  pleasurable  in  life  would  cease  to  continue  so 
Forgive      if  thesc  wcre  forgotten.    The  old  proverb  does  not  tell  you  to 

that  you 

may  forget  forget  that  you  may  forgive,  but  to  forgive  that  you  may  forget 
It  is  forgiveness  of  wrong,  for  forgetfulness  of  the  evil  that  was  in 
it ;  such  as  poor  old  Lear  begged  of  Cordelia. 

The  design  for  his  much- though t-of  new  Periodical  was  still 
'  dim,'  as  we  have  seen,  when  the  first  cogitation  of  it  at  Bon- 
church  occupied  him ;  but  the  expediency  of  making  it  clearer 
came  soon  after  with  a  visit  from  Mr.  Evans,  who  brought  his 
half-year's  accounts  of  sales,  and  some  small  disappointment  for 

copperfieU  him  in  those  of  Copperfield.    *  The  accounts  are  rather  shy,  after 

*  Dombey,  and  what  you  said  comes  true  after  all    I  am  not  sorry 

*  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  care  much  for  what  opinions  people 

*  may  form ;  and  I  have  a  strong  belief,  that,  if  any  of  my  books 

*  are  read  years  hence,  Dombey  will  be  remembered  as  among  the 
'  best  of  them  :  but  passing  influences  are  important  for  the  time, 

chuzziewit  *  and  as  Chuzzlewit  with  its  small  sale  sent  me  up,  Dombey' s  large 
leyS^^'    *  sale  has  tumbled  me  down.    Not  very  much,  however,  in  real 
'  truth.    These  accounts  only  include  the  first  three  numbers. 


§  IV.]  Household  Words  Begun. 


77 


*  have  of  course  been  burdened  with  all  the  heavy  expenses  of  ^on- 

■'  ^  CHURCH  : 

*  number  one,  and  ought  not  in  reason  to  be  complained  of.    But  ^^49- 

*  it  is  clear  to  me  that  the  Periodical  must  be  set  agoing  in  the 

*  spring ;  and  I  have  already  been  busy,  at  odd  half-hours,  in 

*  shadowing  forth  a  name  and  an  idea.    Evans  sa}'s  they  have 

*  but  one  opinion  repeated  to  them  of  Copperfield^  and  they  feel 

*  very  confident  about  it    A  steady  twenty-five  thousand,  which 

*  it  is  now  on  the  verge  of,  will  do  very  well.    The  back  numbers 

*  are  always  going  off    Read  the  enclosed.* 

It  was  a  letter  from  a  Russian  man  of  letters,  dated  from  St.  Letter 
Petersburg,  and  signed  *  Trinarch  Ivansvitch  Wredenskii,'  sending  Russia, 
him  a  translation  of  Dombey  into  Russian ;  and  informing  him 
that  his  works,  which  before  had  only  been  translated  in  the 
journals,  and  with  certain  omissions,  had  now  been  translated  in 
their  entire  form  by  his  correspondent,  though  even  he  had  found 
an  omission  to  be  necessary  in  his  version  of  Pickwick.  He  adds, 
with  an  exquisite  courtesy  to  our  national  tongue  which  is  yet  not 
forgetfiil  of  the  claims  of  his  own  nationality,  that  his  difficulties 
(in  the  Sam  Weller  direction  and  others)  had  arisen  from  the 

*  impossibility  of  portraying  faithfully  the  beauties  of  the  original 

*  in  the  Russian  language,  which,  though  the  richest  in  Europe  in  ^^"[^ 

*  its  expressiveness,  is  far  from  being  elaborate  enough  for  litera- 

*  ture  like  other  civilized  languages.'  He  had  however,  he  assured 
Dickens,  been  unremitting  in  his  efforts  to  live  with  his  thoughts  ; 
and  the  exalted  opinion  he  had  formed  of  them  was  attended  by 
only  one  wish,  that  such  a  writer  *  could  but  have  expanded  under 

*  a  Russian  sky  ! '    Still,  his  fate  was  an  enviable  one.    *  For  the 

*  last  eleven  years  your  name  has  enjoyed  a  wide  celebrity  in 

*  Russia,  and  from  the  banks  of  the  Neva  to  the  remotest  parts 

*  of  Siberia  you  are  read  with  avidity.    Your  Dombey  continues 

*  to  inspire  with  enthusiasm  the  whole  of  the  literary  Russia.' 
Much  did  we  delight  in  the  good  Wredenskii ;  and  for  a  long 
time,  on  anything  going  '  contrairy '  in  the  public  or  private 
direction  with  him,  he  would  tell  me  he  had  ordered  his  port- 
manteau to  be  packed  for  the  more  sympathizing  and  congenial  Sympathy 

.  ,   ,  of  Siberia. 

climate  of  the  remotest  parts  of  Siberia. 

The  week  before  he  left  Bonchurch  I  again  had  news  of  the 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  vi. 


old  and  often  recurring  fancy.    *  The  old  notion  of  the  Periodical, 

*  which  has  been  agitating  itself  in  my  mind  for  so  long,  I  really 
'  think  is  at  last  gradually  growing  into  form.'  This  was  on  the 
24th  of  September;  and  on  the  7th  of  October,  from  Broadstairs, 
I  had  something  of  the  form  it  had  been  taking.    *  I  do  great 

*  injustice  to  my  floating  ideas  (pretty  speedily  and  comfortably 
'  settling  down  into  orderly  arrangement)  by  saying  anything 
'  about  the  Periodical  now :  but  my  notion  is  a  weekly  journal, 
'■  price  either  three-halfpence  or  twopence,  matter  in  part  original 
'  and  in  part  selected,  and  always  having,  if  possible,  a  little  good 

*  poetry .  .  .  Upon  the  selected  matter,  I  have  particular  notions. 

*  One  is,  that  it  should  always  be  a  subject    For  example,  a  his- 

*  tory  of  Piracy ;  in  connexion  with  which  there  is  a  vast  deal  of 
'  extraordinary,  romantic,  and  almost  unknown  matter.  A  history 
'  of  Knight-errantry,  and  the  wild  old  notion  of  the  Sangreal.  A 

*  history  of  Savages,  showing  the  singular  respects  in  which  all 

*  savages  are  like  each  other ;  and  those  in  which  civilised  men, 
'  under  circumstances  of  difficulty,  soonest  become  like  savages. 

*  A  history  of  remarkable  characters,  good  and  bad,  in  history  ; 

*  to  assist  the  reader's  judgment  in  his  observation  of  men,  and 

*  in  his  estimates  of  the  truth  of  many  characters  in  fiction.  All 

*  these  things,  and  fifty  others  that  I  have  already  thought  of, 

*  would  be  compilations  ;  through  the  whole  of  which  the  general 

*  intellect  and  purpose  of  the  paper  should  run,  and  in  which 
'  there  would  be  scarcely  less  interest  than  in  the  original  matter. 
'  The  original  matter  to  be  essays,  reviews,  letters,  theatrical 
'  criticisms,  &c.  &c.  as  amusing  as  possible,  but  all  distinctly 

*  and  boldly  going  to  what  in  one's  own  view  ought  to  be  the 

*  spirit  of  the  people  and  the  time  .  .  .  Now  to  bind  all  this 

*  together,  and  to  get  a  character  established  as  it  were  which 

*  any  of  the  writers  may  maintain  without  difficulty,  I  want  to 

*  suppose  a  certain  Shadow,  which  may  go  into  any  place,  by 
'  sunlight,  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight,  candlelight,  and  be  in  all 

*  homes,  and  all  nooks  and  corners,  and  be  supposed  to  be  cogni- 
'  sant  of  everything,  and  go  everywhere,  without  the  least 
'  difficulty.  Which  may  be  in  the  Theatre,  the  Palace,  the  House 
'  of  Commons,  the  Prisons,  the  Unions,  the  Churches,  on  the 


§  IV.]  Houselwld  Words  Begun. 


79 


Railroad,  on  the  Sea,  abroad  and  at  home  :  a  kind  of  semi-  Broad- 

STAIRS  : 

omniscient,  omnipresent,  intangible  creature.    I  don't  think  it  ^9-  _ 

would  do  to  call  the  paper  The  Shadow  :  but  I  want  something  a  shadow 

for  every- 

tacked  to  that  title,  to  express  the  notion  of  its  being  a  cheerful,  where, 
useful,  and  always  welcome  Shadow.  I  want  to  open  the  first 
number  with  this  Shadow's  account  of  himself  and  his  family. 
I  want  to  have  all  the  correspondence  addressed  to  him.  I 
want  him  to  issue  his  warnings  from  time  to  time,  that  he  is 
going  to  fall  on  such  and  such  a  subject;  or  to  expose  such  and 
such  a  piece  of  humbug  ;  or  that  he  may  be  expected  shortly  in 
such  and  such  a  place.  I  want  the  compiled  part  of  the  paper 
to  express  the  idea  of  this  Shadow's  having  been  in  libraries,  and 
among  the  books  referred  to.  I  want  him  to  loom  as  a  fanciful 
thing  all  over  London;  and  to  get  up  a  general  notion  of 
"  What  will  the  Shadow  say  about  this,  I  wonder  ?  What  will 
"  the  Shadow  say  about  this  ?  Is  the  Shadow  here  ?  "  and  so 
forth.  Do  you  understand  ?  .  .  .  I  have  an  enormous  difficulty 
in  expressing  what  I  mean,  in  this  stage  of  the  business ;  but  I 
think  the  importance  of  the  idea  is,  that  once  stated  on  paper, 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  keeping  it  up.  That  it  presents  an  odd, 
unsubstantial,  whimsical,  new  thing :  a  sort  of  previously  un- 
thought  of  Power  going  about.  That  it  will  concentrate  into 
one  focus  all  that  is  done  in  the  paper.  That  it  sets  up  a  crea- 
ture which  isn't  the  Spectator,  and  isn't  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  and 
isn't  anything  of  that  kind  :  but  in  which  people  will  be  per- 
fectly wiUing  ♦■o  believe,  and  which  is  just  as  mysterious  and 
quaint  enough  to  have  a  sort  of  charm  for  their  imagination, 
while  it  will  represent  common-sense  and  humanity.  I  want  to 
express  in  the  title,  and  in  the  grasp  of  the  idea  to  express  also, 
that  it  is  the  Thing  at  everybody's  elbow,  and  in  everybody's 
footsteps.    At  the  window,  by  the  fire,  in  the  street,  in  the  Something 

for  every- 

house,  from  infancy  to  old  age,  everybody's  inseparable  com-  body, 
panion  .  .  .  Now  do  you  make  anything  out  of  this  ?  which  I 
let  off  as  if  I  were  a  bladder  full  of  it,  and  you  had  punctured 
me.  I  have  not  breathed  the  idea  to  any  one ;  but  I  have  a 
lively  hope  that  it  is  an  idea,  and  that  out  of  it  the  whole  scheme 
may  be  hammered.' 


8o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  vi. 


Broad-       Excellent  the  idea  doubtless,  and  so  described  in  his  letter  that 

STAIRS :  ' 

^^49-  hardly  anything  more  characteristic  survives  him.  But  I  could 
not  make  anything  out  of  it  that  had  a  quite  feasible  look.  The 
ordinary  ground  of  miscellaneous  reading,  selection,  and  compi- 
lation out  of  which  it  was  to  spring,  seemed  to  me  no  proper  soil 
for  the  imaginative  produce  it  was  meant  to  bear.  As  his  fancies 
incompati-  grcw  and  gathered  round  it,  they  had  given  it  too  much  of  the 

bilities  of  _  jo 

the  design,  range  and  scope  of  his  own  exhaustless  land  of  invention  and 
marvel ;  and  the  very  means  proposed  for  letting  in  the  help  of 
others  would  only  more  heavily  have  weighted  himself.  Not  to 
trouble  the  reader  now  with  objections  given  him  in  detail,  my 
judgment  was  clear  against  his  plan;  less  for  any  doubt  of  the 
effect  if  its  parts  could  be  brought  to  combine,  than  for  my  belief 
that  it  was  not  in  that  view  practicable  ;  and  though  he  did  not 
immediately  accept  my  reasons,  he  acquiesced  in  them  ultimately. 

*  I  do  not  lay  much  stress  on  your  grave  doubts  about  Periodical, 

*  but  more  anon.'  The  more  anon  resolved  itself  into  conversa- 
tions out  of  which  the  shape  given  to  the  project  was  that  which 
it  finally  took. 

New  design  It  was  to  be  a  weekly  miscellany  of  general  literature  j  and  its 
stated  objects  were  to  be,  to  contribute  to  the  entertainment  and 
instruction  of  all  classes  of  readers,  and  to  help  in  the  discussion 
of  the  more  important  social  questions  of  the  time.  It  was  to 
comprise  short  stories  by  others  as  well  as  himself ;  matters  of 
passing  interest  in  the  liveliest  form  that  could  be  given  to  them  ; 
subjects  suggested  by  books  that  might  most  be  attracting  atten- 
tion ;  and  poetry  in  every  number  if  possible,  but  in  any  case 
something  of  romantic  fancy.  This  was  to  be  a  cardinal  point. 
There  was  to  be  no  mere  utilitarian  spirit;  with  all  familiar 
things,  but  especially  those  repellant  on  the  surface,  something 
was  to  be  connected  that  should  be  fanciful  or  kindly ;  and  the 
hardest  workers  were  to  be  taught  that  their  lot  is  not  necessarily 
excluded  from  the  sympathies  and  graces  of  imagination.  This 
was  all  finally  settled  by  the  close  of  1849,  when  a  general  an- 
nouncement of  the  intended  adventure  was  made.  There  remained 
Assistant  Only  a  title  and  an  assistant  editor ;  and  I  am  happy  now  to  re- 
pointed,      member  that  for  the  latter  important  duty  Mr.  Wills  was  chosen 


§  iv.J  Household  Words  Begun. 


8i 


at  my  suggestion.    He  discharged  its  duties  with  admirable  London: 

patience  and  ability  for  twenty  years,  and  Dickens's  later  life  had  — 

no  more  intimate  friend. 

The  title  took  some  time  and  occupied  many  letters.    One  of 
the  first  thought-of  has  now  the  curious  interest  of  having  fore- 
shadowed, by  the  motto  proposed  to  accompany  it,  the  title  of  the  ^^^1^2'°" 
series  of  All  the  Year  Round  which  he  was  led  to  substitute  for 
the  older  series  in  1859.    *  The  Robin.    With  this  motto  from 

*  Goldsmith.     The  redbreast^  celebrated  for  its  affection  to  man- 

*  kindj  continues  with  us,  the  year  roundJ  That  however  was 
rejected.  Then  came  :  *  Mankind.  This  I  think  very  good.' 
It  followed  the  other  nevertheless.  After  it  came :  *  And  here 
'  a  strange  idea,   but  with   decided  advantages.     "  Charles 

*  "  Dickens.    A  weekly  journal  designed  for  the  instruction  and 

*  "  entertainm.ent  of  all  classes  of  readers.    Conducted  by  Him- 

*  "  SELF." '  Still,  something  was  wanting  in  that  also.  Next 
day  there  arrived  :  *  I  really  think  if  there  be  anything  wanting  in 

*  the  other  name,  that  this  is  very  pretty,  and  just  supplies  it. 

*  The  Household  Voice.    I  have  thought  of  many  others,  as —  Names 

*  The  Household  Guest.    The    Household  Face.  The 

*  Comrade.    The  Microscope.    The  Highway  of  Life.  The 

*  Lever.    The  Rolling  Years.    The  Holly  Tree  (with  two 

*  lines  from  Southey  for  a  motto).    Everything.    But  I  rather 

*  think  the  Voice  is  it'  It  was  near  indeed ;  but  the  following 
day  came,  *  Household  Words.  This  is  a  very  pretty  name  : ' 
and  the  choice  was  made. 

The  first  number  appeared  on  Saturday  the  30th  of  March, 
1850,  and  contained  among  other  things  the  beginning  of  a  story 
by  a  very  original  writer,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  for  whose  powers  he  had 
a  high  admiration,  and  with  whom  he  had  friendly  intercourse 
during  many  years.  Other  opportunities  will  arise  for  mention 
of  those  with  whom  this  new  labour  brought  him  into  personal 
communication,  but  I  may  at  once  say  that  of  all  the  writers, 
before  unknown,  whom  his  journal  helped  to  make  familiar  to  a  First  con 

tributors. 

Wide  world  of  readers,  he  had  the  strongest  personal  interest  in 
Mr.  Sala,  and  placed  at  once  in  the  highest  rank  his  capabilities 

VQL.  II.  Q 


82 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London:  of  help  in  such  an  enterprise.*    An  illustrative  trait  of  what  I 

 have  named  as  its  cardinal  point  to  him  will  fitly  close  my  account 

of  its  establishment.  Its  first  number,  still  unpublished,  had  not 
seemed  to  him  quite  to  fulfil  his  promise,  *  tenderly  to  cherish  the 

*  light  of  fancy  inherent  in  all  breasts ; '  and,  as  soon  as  he  re- 
At      ceived  the  proof  of  the  second,  I  heard  from  him.  *  Looking  over 

*  the  suggested  contents  of  number  two  at  breakfast  this  morning ' 
(Brighton :  14th  of  March  1850)  *  I  felt  an  uneasy  sense  of  there 
'  being  a  want  of  something  tender,  which  would  apply  to  some 

Want  first  *  uuivcrsal  household  knowledge.  Coming  down  in  the  railroad 
him.^^       *  the  other  night  (always  a  wonderfully  suggestive  place  to  me 

*  when  I  am  alone)  I  was  looking  at  the  stars,  and  revolving  a 

*  little  idea  about  them.    Putting  now  these  two  things  together, 

*  I  wrote  the  enclosed  little  paper,  straightway  ;  and  should  like 
'  you  to  read  it  before  you  send  it  to  the  printers  (it  will  not  take 

*  you  five  minutes),  and  let  me  have  a  proof  by  return.'  This 
Supplied,    was  the  child's  'dream  of  a  star,'  which  opened  his  second 

number ;  and,  though  it  appears  among  his  reprinted  pieces,  it 

may  justify  a  word  or  two  of  description.    It  is  of  a  brother  and 

sister,  constant  child-companions,  who  used  to  make  friends  of  a 

star,  watching  it  together  until  they  knew  when  and  where  it 

would  rise,  and  always  bidding  it  good-night ;  so  that  when  the 

sister  dies  the  lonely  brother  still  connects  her  with  the  star, 

which  he  then  sees  opening  as  a  world  of  light,  and  its  rays 

Child's       making  a  shining  pathway  from  earth  to  heaven  ;  and  he  also 

a  star.        sces  angels  waiting  to  receive  travellers  up  that  sparkling  road, 

his  little  sister  among  them  j  and  he  thinks  ever  after  that  he 

belongs  less  to  the  earth  than  to  the  star  where  his  sister  is ;  and 

*  Mr.  Sala's  first  paper  appeared  in  *  conscientious  fellow.    When  he  gets 

vSeptember  1851,  and  in  the  same  *  money  ahead,  he  is  not  like  the 

month  of  the  following  year  I  had  an  *  imbecile  youth  who  so  often  do  the 

allusion  in  a  letter  from  Dickens  which  *  like  in  Wellington-street '  (the  office 

I  shall  hope  to  have  Mr,  Sala's  for-  of  Household  Words)  '  and  walk  off, 

giveness  for  printing.   '  That  was  very  *  but  only  works  more  industriously. 

good  indeed  of  Sala's'  (some  essay  *  I  think  he  improves  with  everything 

he  had  written).     '  He  was  twenty  *  he  does.    He  looks  sharply  at  the 

'  guineas  in  advance,  by  the  bye,  and  *  alterations  in  his  articles,  I  observe  ; 

*  I  told  Wills  dehcately  to  make  him  '  and  takes  the  hint  next  time.' 

*  a  present  of  it.    I  find  him  a  very 


§  v.]  I 71  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art, 


83 


he  grows  up  to  youth  and  through  manhood  and  old  age,  consoled  Brighton 

still  under  the  successive  domestic  bereavements  that  fall  to  his  

earthly  lot  by  renewal  of  that  vision  of  his  childhood ;  until  at 
last,  lying  on  his  own  bed  of  death,  he  feels  that  he  is  moving  as 
a  child  to  his  child-sister,  and  he  thanks  his  heavenly  father  that 
the  star  had  so  often  opened  before  to  receive  the  dear  ones  who 
awaited  him. 

His  sister  Fanny  and  himself,  he  told  me  long  before  this 
paper  was  written,  used  to  wander  at  night  about  a  church- 
yard near  their  house,  looking  up  at  the  stars ;  and  her  early 
death,  of  which  I  am  shortly  to  speak,  had  vividly  reawakened  all 
the  childish  associations  which  made  her  memory  dear  to  him. 


V. 

IN  AID  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 
1850 — 1852. 

In  the  year  of  the  establishment  of  Household  Words  Dickens  London  : 

1848-50. 

resumed  what  I  have  called  his  splendid  strolling  on  behalf  of 
a  scheme  for  the  advantage  of  men  of  letters,  to  which  a  great 
brother-author  had  given  the  sanction  of  his  genius  and  name. 
In  November  1850,  in  the  hall  of  Lord  Lytton's  old  family  seat 
in  Knebworth-park,  there  were  three  private  performances  by  the 
original  actors  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  His  Humour,  of 
which  all  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  were  very  brilliant ; 
some  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  county  played  both  in  comedy  Origin  of 
and  farces ;  our  generous  host  was  profuse  of  all  noble  encourage-  Literature 

and  Art. 

ment ;  and  amid  the  general  pleasure  and  excitement  hopes  rose 
high.  Recent  experience  had  shown  what  the  public  interest 
in  this  kind  of  amusement  might  place  within  reach  of  its  pro- 
viders ;  and  there  came  to  be  discussed  the  possibility  of  making 
permanent  such  help  as  had  been  afforded  to  fellow  writers,  by 
means  of  an  endowment  that  should  not  be  mere  charity,  but 
should  combine  something  of  both  pension-list  and  college- 
lectureship,  without  the  drawbacks  of  either.  It  was  not  enough 
considered  that  schemes  for  self-help,  to  be  successful,  require 


84 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London:  from  those  they  are  meant  to  benefit,  not  only  a  general  assent  to 
1850. 

—   their  desirability,  but  zealous  co-operation.   Too  readily  assummg 

what  should  have  had  more  thorough  investigation,  the  enterprise 
was  set  on  foot,  and  the  *  Guild  of  Literature  and  Art '  originated 
at  Kneb worth.  A  five-act  comedy  was  to  be  written  by  Sir  Edward 
Lytton ;  and,  when  a  certain  sum  of"  money  had  been  obtained 
by  public  representations  of  it,  the  details  of  the  scheme  were  to 
be  drawn  up,  and  appeal  made  to  those  whom  it  addressed  more 
especially.    In  a  very  few  months  everything  was  ready,  except  a 

^^''ce        farce  which  Dickens  was  to  have  written  to  follow  the  comedy, 

promi&ed  by  ' 

Dickens.  which  Unexpected  cares  of  management  and  preparation  were 

held  to  absolve  him  from.    There  were  other  reasons.    '  I  have 

*  written  the  first  scene,'  he  told  me  (23rd  of  March,  1851),  *and  it 
'  has  droll  points  in  it,  "  more  farcical  points  than  you  commonly 
'  "  find  in  farces,"  *  really  better.   Yet  I  am  constantly  striving,  for 

*  my  reputation's  sake,  to  get  into  it  a  meaning  that  is  impossible 
'  in  a  farce  ;  constantly  thinking  of  it,  therefore,  against  the  grain  ; 
'  and  constantly  impressed  with  a  conviction  that  I  could  never 
'  act  in  it  myself  with  that  wild  abandonment  which  can  alone 
'  carry  a  farce  off.    Wherefore  I  have  confessed  to  Bulwer  Lytton 

Farce  sub-    <  and  askcd  for  absolution.'    There  was  substituted  a  new  farce  of 

stituted 

Dkkens  Lcmou's,  to  which,  however,  Dickens  soon  contributed  so  many 
writtln^^''  jokes  and  so  much  Gampish  and  other  fun  of  his  own,  that  it 
came  to  be  in  effect  a  joint  piece  of  authorship ;  and  Gabblewigg, 
which  the  manager  took  to  himself,  was  one  of  those  personation 
parts  requiring  five  or  six  changes  of  face,  voice,  and  gait  in  the 
course  of  it,  from  which,  as  we  have  seen,  he  derived  all  the  early 
theatrical  ambition  that  the  elder  Mathews  had  awakened  in  him. 

*  You  have  no  idea,'  he  continued,  *  of  the  immensity  of  the  work 

*  as  the  time  advances,  for  the  Duke  even  throws  the  whole  of  the 

*  audience  on  us,  or  he  would  get  (he  says)  into  all  manner  of 

*  Fcrapes.' 

*  The  Duke '  was  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  of  whose  love  of 

•  *  Those  Rabbits  have  more  nature  showing  his  piece  to  the  most  distin- 

*  in  them  than  you  commonly  find  in  guished  master  in  that  line — was  here 

*  Rabbits '  —  the    self-commendatory  in  my  friend's  mind, 
reroa^k  of  an  aspiring  animal-painter 


§  v.]        In  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art, 


8s 


letters  and  interest  for  men  of  that  calling  I  have  given  on  a  London: 

1850. 

former  page  {ante^  L  472),  one  of  the  many  instances  that  adorned  ^  ^ 
a  life  which  alone  perhaps  in  England  was  genuinely  and  com- 
pletely  that  of  the  Grand  Seigneur.  Well-read  and  very  accom- 
plished, he  had  the  pleasing  manners  which  proceed  from  a  kind 
nature ;  and  splendid  in  his  mode  of  living  beyond  any  other 
English  noble,  his  magnificence,  by  the  ease  and  elegance  that 
accompanied  it,  was  relieved  from  all  offence  of  ostentation.  He 
had  offered  his  house  in  Piccadilly  for  the  first  representations, 
and  in  his  princely  way  discharged  all  the  expenses  attending 
them.  A  moveable  theatre  was  built  and  set  up  in  the  great 
drawing-room,  the  library  was  turned  into  a  green-room,  and  here 
Lytton's  comedy  was  presented.  While  the  rehearsals  were  in 
progress  our  friend  Macready  was  bidding  adieu  to  the  art  ot 
which  he  had  long  been  the  leading  ornament ;  and  before  the 
comedy  was  produced  its  author  presided  at  the  farewell  dinner 
to  that  distinguished  actor  on  his  quitting  the  stage.  Dickens 
and  myself  came  up  for  it  from  Malvern  {post^  §  vi.),  and  a  few 
words  from  his  speech  proposing  the  chairman's  health  will 
illustrate  the  enterprise  on  foot  and  indicate  its  most  generous 
helper.    'There  is  a  popular  prejudice,  a  kind  of  superstition, 

*  that  authors  are  not  a  particularly  united  body,  and  I  am  afraid 

*  that  this  may  contain  half  a  grain  or  so  of  the  veracious.  But 

*  of  our  chairman  I  have  never  in  my  life  made  public  mention 

*  without  adding  what  I  can  never  repress,  that  in  the  path  we 

*  both  tread  I  have  uniformly  found  him  to  be,  from  the  first,  the  Edward 

\  .  Bulwer, 

*  most  generous  of  men ;  quick  to  encourage,  slow  to  disparage,  Lord 

*  and  ever  anxious  to  assert  the  order  of  which  he  is  so  great  an 

*  ornament    That  we  men  of  letters  are,  or  have  been,  invariably 

*  or  inseparably  attached  to  each  other,  it  may  not  be  possible  to 

*  say,  formerly  or  now ;  but  there  cannot  now  be,  and  there  can- 

*  not  ever  have  been,  among  the  followers  of  literature,  a  man  so 

*  entirely  without  the  grudging  little  jealousies  that  too  often  over- 

*  shadow  its  brightness,  as  he  who  now  occupies  that  chair.  Nor 

*  was  there  ever  a  time  when  such  reason  existed  for  bearing 

*  testimony  to  his  great  consideration  for  the  evils  sometimes 

*  unfortunately  attendant  upon  literature,  though  never  on  his  own 


86 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London  :    *  pursuit  of  it 
1850,  ^ 


Lord 

Lytton's 

death. 


For,  in  conjunction  with  some  other  gentlemen 

*  now  present,  I  have  just  embarked  in  a  design  with  him  to 

*  smooth  the  rugged  way  of  young  labourers  both  in  literature  and 

*  the  fine  arts,  and  to  soften,  but  by  no  eleemosynary  means,  the 

*  declining  years  of  meritorious  age.    If  it  prosper,  as  I  hope  it 

*  will,  and  as  I  know  it  ought,  there  will  one  day  in  England  be 
'  an  honour  where  there  is  now  a  reproach  ;  and  a  future  race  of 

*  men  of  letters  will  gratefully  remember  that  it  originated  in  the 

*  sympathies,  and  was  made  practicable  by  the  generosity,  of  Sir 

*  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.' 

The  design  nevertheless  did  not  prosper,  and  both  the  great 
writers  who  had  associated  themselves  with  it  are  now  passed 
away.  Since  it  first  was  mentioned  on  this  page.  Lord  Lytton 
has  himself  been  borne  to  the  Abbey  where  Dickens  is  laid,  and 
which  never  opened  to  receive  a  more  varied  genius,  a  more 
gallant  spirit,  a  man  more  constant  to  his  friends,  more  true  to 
any  cause  he  represented,  or  whose  name  will  hereafter  be  found 
entitled  to  a  more  honoured  place  in  the  history  of  his  time.* 


Dickens  to 
Lord 
Lyttoo, 
ifc66. 


*  In  the  criticism  of  his  day  there 
is  no  one  who  has  been  more  grudg- 
ingly appreciated,  or  more  harshly  and 
unjustly  judged.  What  kind  of  ap- 
preciation many  of  Lytton's  later  wri- 
tings obtained  from  Dickens,  and  how 
his  earlier  seem  to  have  affected  him 
before  the  days  when  he  was  himself 
known  as  a  writer,  will  be  shown,  now 
not  unbecomingly,  by  extracts  from  a 
letter  on  the  Tales  of  Miletus.  *  The 
'  book,'  Dickens  wrote  to  the  author 
(loth  January,  1866)  'arrived  yester- 
'  day,  and  in  the  evening  I  had  the 

*  inexpressible  pleasure  of  reading  it 

*  through.    When  I  closed  it  at  past 

*  midnight,  my  mind  was  filled  with  a 

*  crowd  of  new  delights.    To-day  I 

*  have  read  it  again,  and  the  crowd  is 

*  doubled.    My  ear  instantly  took  to 

*  the  metres.    When  they  changed,  I 

*  changed  as  easily  and  sympatheti- 

*  cally.  Insomuch  that  I  cannot  repre- 

*  sent  to  myself  any  one  of  the  Tales, 

*  as  told  in  any  other  way  than  your 


way.  I  mention  this,  because  I  am 
not  usually  free  from  a  certain  un- 
adaptable obstinacy  as  to  novelties  in 
poetic  rhythm,  and  to  this  hour  am 
forced  to  separate  some  ideas  of  some 
friends  of  ours  from  the  mechanism 
with  which  they  are  associated — alto- 
gether to  separate  the  one  from  the 
other,  and  to  express  the  thoughts  to 
my  thoughts  in  my  own  manner. 
The  extraordinary  beauty,  pictu- 
resqueness,  and  completeness  of  The 
Secret  Way,  fascinated  me.  Argiope 
holds  her  place  in  my  heart,  against 
all  her  rivals.  When  she  is  led  in  by 
the  priest  and  takes  the  cup,  she  is 
peerless  in  the  world  of  women. 
But  the  narrative  itself,  the  painting 
in  it,  the  distinctness  attained,  the 
glowing  force  of  it,  the  imagination 
in  it  and  yet  the  terseness  and  close- 
ness of  it,  these  astonish  me  I  I  de- 
clare to  you  that  I  have  never  read 
any  story,  whatsoever  the  manner  of 
its  telling,  so  perfectly  amazing  to  me 


§  v.]         In  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art. 


87 


The  Guild  design  failed  because  the  support  indispensable  to  London 

.  .        ,       ,  ,         .  .      ,  AND 

success  was  not,  as  Dickens  too  sangumely  hoped,  given  to  it  by  Provinces  : 

1851-52. 

literary  men  themselves.     But  one  part  of  his  prediction  may 


Failure  of 

yet  have  fulfilment,  since  the  failure  has  made  it  perhaps  even  Guild, 
more  rather  than  less  likely  that  future  followers  of  literature  will 
have  reason  to  remember,  how  wise  and  well-directed  was  the 
unavailing  effort  to  enable  the  most  sensitive  of  all  professions  to 
receive  assistance  in  its  hour  of  distress  without  the  loss  of  self- 
respect  or  dignity.  How  high  Dickens  had  carried  his  hope  in 
this  respect,  and  to  what  depth  of  disappointment  he  fell  at  its 
collapse,  will  have  mention  on  a  later  page. 

Lytton's  comedy,  Not  so  Bad  as  We  Seem,  was  played  for  the  Perform- 
ance of 

first  time  at  Devonshire-house  on  the  i6th  of  May,  185 1,  before  Lytton's 

comedy. 

the  Queen  and  Prince  and  as  large  an  audience  as  places  could 
be  found  for ;  the  farce  of  Mr.  Nightingales  Diary  being  reserved 
for  the  second  performance.  The  success  abundantly  realised 
expectation ;  and,  after  many  representations  at  the  Hanover- 
square  Rooms  in  London,  strolling  began  in  the  country,  and  was 
continued  at  intervals  for  considerable  portions  of  this  and  the 
following  year.  From  much  of  it,  I  was  myself  disabled  by  illness 
and  occupation,  and  substitutes  had  to  be  found ;  but  to  this  I 
owe  a  lively  and  characteristic  picture  of  Dickens  amid  the  in- 
cidents and  accidents  to  which  his  theatrical  career  exposed  him, 
which  may  be  taken  from  the  closing  performances.  The  com-  Travelling 
pany  carried  with  them,  it  should  be  said,  the  theatre  constructed  ^nd  scenes, 
for  Devonshire-house,  as  well  as  the  admirable  scenes  which 
Stanfield,  David  Roberts,  Thomas  Grieve,  Telbin,  Absolon,  and 

'  in  these  respects,  quite  apart  from  its  *  I  suppose  the  Oread's  son  to  have 

*  winning  tenderness  and  grace.    Of  *  been  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  the 

*  Death  and  Sisyphus  at  table,  again,  *  Tales  to  tell,  because  the  legend  in 

*  I  have  as  clear  and  vivid  a  picture  *  one  form  or  other  is  the  most  familiar 

*  as  if  I  had  looked  in  at  the  window  *  of  all  by  far.    But  for  a  perfectly 

*  and  seen  them  together  :   and  the  '  different  kind  of  beauty,  my  pastoral 

*  last  twenty  lines  of  that  poem  are  *  reading  cannot  match  it ;  and  the 

*  magnificent.     The  sacrifice  of  the  *  reed  is  broken  by  the  master-hand, 

*  wife  of  Miletus,  and  the  picture  of  *  that,  in  the  days  of  the  Last  Days 

*  the  Temple  in  Cydippe,  are  the  two  *  of  Pompeii^  I  used  to  wonder  whether 

*  things  next  distinctest  in  the  new  *  I  should  ever  make  myself  famous 

*  host  by  which  I  find  myself  begirt.  *  enough  to  touch.' 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


Louis  Haghe  had  painted  as  their  generous  free-offerings  to  the 
comedy;  of  which  the  representations  were  thus  rendered  irre- 
spective of  theatres  or  their  managers,  and  took  place  in  the  large 
halls  or  concert-rooms  of  the  various  towns  and  cities.  A  design 
for  the  card  of  membership,  taken  from  an  incident  in  the  life  of 
Defoe,  expressed  the  interest  felt  in  the  undertaking  by  another 
distinguished  artist,  Mr.  E.  M.  Ward. 

*  The  comedy,'  Dickens  wrote  from  Sunderland  on  the  29th  of 
August,  1852,  '  is  so  far  improved  by  the  reductions  which  your 
'  absence  and  other  causes  have  imposed  on  us,  that  it  acts  now 

*  only  two  hours  and  twenty-five  minutes,  all  waits  included,  and 
'  goes  "  like  wildfire,"  as  Mr.  Tonson  *  says.  We  have  had  pro- 
'  digious  houses,  though  smaller  rooms  (as  to  their  actual  size) 
'  than  I  had  hoped  for.    The  Duke  was  at  Derby,  and  no  end  of 

*  minor  radiances.  Into  the  room  at  Newcastle  (where  Lord 
'  Carlisle  was  by  the  bye)  they  squeezed  six  hundred  people,  at 

*  twelve  and  sixpence,  into  a  space  reasonably  capable  of  holding 

*  three  hundred.    Last  night,  in  a  hall  built  like  a  theatre,  with 

*  pit,  boxes,  and  gallery,  we  had  about  twelve  hundred — I  dare 

*  say  more.    They  began  with  a  round  of  applause  when  Coote's 

*  white  waistcoat  appeared  in  the  orchestra,  and  wound  up  the 

*  farce  with  three  deafening  cheers.    I  never  saw  such  good 

*  fellows.    Stanny  is  their  fellow-townsman ;  was  bom  here  ;  and 

*  they  applauded  his  scene  as  if  it  were  himselfi    But  what  I 

*  suffered  from  a  dreadful  anxiety  that  hung  over  me  all  the  time, 

*  I  can  never  describe.    When  we  got  here  at  noon,  it  appeared 

*  that  the  hall  was  a  perfectly  new  one,  and  had  only  had  the  slates 
'  put  upon  the  roof  by  torchlight  over  night.    Farther,  that  the 

*  proprietors  of  some  opposition  rooms  had  declared  the  building 
'  to  be  unsafe,  and  that  there  was  a  panic  in  the  town  about  it ; 

*  people  having  had  their  money  back,  and  being  undecided 

*  Mr.  Tonson  was  a  small  part  in  *  The  actors  and  the  audience  were  so 
the  comedy  entrusted  with  much  ap-  *  close  together  that  as  Mr.  Jacob 
propriateness  to  Mr.  Charles  Knight,  *  Tonson  sat  in  Wills's  Coffee-house 
whose  Autobiography  has  this  allusion  *  he  could  have  touched  with  his 
to  the  first  performance,  which,  as  Mr.  *  clouded  cane  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
Pepys  says,  is  'pretty  to  observe.'  *  ton:'    (iii.  116.) 


§  V.J         In  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art. 


89 


*  whether  to  come  or  not,  and  all  kinds  of  such  horrors.    I  didn't  Sunder- 

land : 

*  know  what  to  do.    The  horrible  responsibility  of  risking  an  ^^52- 

'  accident  of  that  awful  nature  seemed  to  rest  only  upon  me  :  for  Troubles  of 

•'  a  manager. 

*  I  had  only  to  say  we  wouldn't  act,  and  there  would  be  no  chance 

*  of  danger.    I  was  afraid  to  take  Sloman  into  council  lest  the 

*  panic  should  infect  our  men.    I  asked  W.  what  he  thought,  and 

*  he  consolingly  observed  that  his  digestion  was  so  bad  that  death 
'  had  no  terrors  for  him  !    I  went  and  looked  at  the  place  ;  at  the 

*  rafters,  walls,  pillars,  and  so  forth ;  and  fretted  myself  into  a 

*  belief  that  they  really  were  slight !  To  crown  all,  there  was  an 
'  arched  iron  roof  without  any  brackets  or  pillars,  on  a  new  prin- 

*  ciple  !  The  only  comfort  I  had  was  in  stumbling  at  length  on 
'  the  builder,  and  finding  him  a  plain  practical  north-countryman 

*  with  a  foot  rule  in  his  pocket.  I  took  him  aside,  and  asked 
'  him  should  we,  or  could  we,  prop  up  any  weak  part  of  the 

*  place :  especially  the  dressing-rooms,  which  were  under  our 
'  stage,  the  weight  of  which  must  be  heavy  on  a  new  floor,  and 

*  dripping  wet  walls.    He  told  me  there  wasn't  a  stronger  build- 

*  ing  in  the  world ;  and  that,  to  allay  the  apprehension,  they  had 

*  opened  it,  on  Thursday  night,  to  thousands  of  the  working 
'  people,  and  induced  them  to  sing,  and  beat  with  their  feet,  and 
'  make  every  possible  trial  of  the  vibration.    Accordingly  there 

*  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on.    I  was  in  such  dread,  however, 

*  lest  a  false  alarm  should  spring  up  among  the  audience  and 

*  occasion  a  rush,  that  I  kept  Catherine  and  Georgina  out  of  the 

*  front.    When  the  curtain  went  up  and  I  saw  the  great  sea  of  Acting 

under 

*  faces  rolling  up  to  the  roof,  I  looked  here  and  looked  there,  and  cUflicuities. 

*  thought  I  saw  the  gallery  out  of  the  perpendicular,  and  fancied 

*  the  lights  in  the  ceiling  were  not  straight.    Rounds  of  applause 

*  were  perfect  agony  to  me,  I  was  so  afraid  of  their  effect  upon 
'  the  building.    I  was  ready  all  night  to  rush  on  in  case  of  an 

*  alarm — a  false  alarm  was  my  main  dread — and  implore  the 

*  people  for  God's  sake  to  sit  still.    I  had  our  great  farce-bell 

*  rung  to  startle  Sir  Geoffrey  instead  of  throwing  down  a  piece  of 

*  wood,  which  might  have  raised  a  sudden  apprehension.    I  had 

*  a  palpitation  of  the  heart,  if  any  of  our  people  stumbled  up  or 

*  down  a  stair.    I  am  sure  I  never  acted  better,  but  the  anxiety 


90 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Sunder-  *  of  my  mind  was  so  intense,  and  the  relief  at  last  so  great,  that  I 

land:  o  7 

'852-     *  am  half  dead  to-day,  and  have  not  yet  been  able  to  eat  or  drink 

*  anything  or  to  stir  out  of  my  room.    I  shall  never  forget  it.  As 

*  to  the  short  time  we  had  for  getting  the  theatre  up ;  as  to  the 

*  upsetting,  by  a  runaway  pair  of  horses,  of  one  of  the  vans  at  the 
f  Jertu7ned.  *  Newcastle  railway  station  with  all  the  scenery  in  it,  every  atom  of 

*  which  was  turned  over ;  as  to  the  fatigue  of  our  carpenters,  who 

*  have  now  been  up  four  nights,  and  who  were  lying  dead  asleep 

*  in  the  entrances  last  night ;  I  say  nothing,  after  the  other 

*  gigantic  nightmare,  except  that  Sloman's  splendid  knowledge  of 

*  his  business,  and  the  good  temper  and  cheerfulness  of  all  the 

*  workmen,  are  capital.    I  mean  to  give  them  a  supper  at  Liver- 

*  pool,  and  address  them  in  a  neat  and  appropriate  speech.  We 

*  dine  at  two  to-day  (it  is  now  one)  and  go  to  Sheffield  at  four, 

*  arriving  there  at  about  ten.    I  had  been  as  fresh  as  a  daisy ; 

*  walked  from  Nottingham  to  Derby,  and  from  Newcastle  here ; 

*  but  seem  to  have  had  my  nerves  crumpled  up  last  night,  and 

*  have  an  excruciating  headache.    That's  all  at  present.    I  shall 

*  never  be  able  to  bear  the  smell  of  new  deal  and  fresh  mortar 

*  again  as  long  as  I  live.' 

Manchester  and  Liverpool  closed  the  trip  with  enormous  suc- 
cess at  both  places;  and  Sir  Edward  Lytton  was  present  at  a 
public  dinner  which  was  given  in  the  former  city,  Dickens's  brief 
word  about  it  being  written  as  he  was  setting  foot  in  the  train 
Dinner  at    that  was  to  bring  him  to  London.    *  Bulwer  spoke  brilliantly  at 

Man- 
chester.      <  the  Manchester  dinner,  and  his  earnestness  and  determination 

*  about  the  Guild  was  most  impressive.    It  carried  everything 

*  before  it.    They  are  now  getting  up  annual  subscriptions,  and 

*  will  give  us  a  revenue  to  begin  with.    I  swear  I  believe  that 

*  people  to  be  the  greatest  in  the  world.    At  Liverpool  I  had  a 
A  round     '  Round  Robin  on  the  stage  after  the  play  was  over,  a  place  being 

robin. 

*  'left  for  your  signature,  and  as  I  am  going  to  have  it  framed,  I'll 

*  tell  Green  to  send  it  to  Lincoln's-inn-fields.  You  have  no  idea 
'  how  good  Tenniel,  Topham,  and  Collins  have  been  in  what  they 

*  had  to  do.' 

These  names,  distinguished  in  art  and  letters,  represent  ad- 
ditions to  the  company  who  had  joined  the  enterprise ;  and  the 


§  VI.]        Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace,  Qi 

last  of  them,  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  became,  for  all  the  rest  of  the  London  : 

.  1848-S1. 
life  of  Dickens,  one  of  his  dearest  and  most  valued  friends. 


VI. 

LAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 
1848— 1851. 

Excepting  always  the  haunts  and  associations  of  his  child-  Sentiment 
hood,  Dickens  had  no  particular  sentiment  of  locality,  and  any  places, 
special  regard  for  houses  he  had  lived  in  was  not  a  thing  notice- 
able in  him.  But  he  cared  most  for  Devonshire-terrace,  perhaps 
for  the  bit  of  ground  attached  to  it ;  and  it  was  with  regret  he 
suddenly  discovered,  at  the  close  of  1847,  that  he  should  have  to 
resign  it  *  next  lady-day  three  years.  I  had  thought  the  lease  two 
'  years  more.'  To  that  brief  remaining  time  belong  some  inci- 
dents of  which  I  have  still  to  give  account ;  and  I  connect  them 
with  the  house  in  which  he  lived  during  the  progress  of  what  is 
generally  thought  his  greatest  book,  and  of  what  I  think  were  his 
happiest  years. 

We  had  never  had  such  intimate  confidences  as  in  the  interval 
since  his  return  from  Paris  ;  but  these  have  been  used  in  my  nar- 
rative of  the  childhood  and  boyish  experiences,  and  what  remain 
are  incidental  only.  Of  the  fragment  of  autobiography  there  also 
given,  the  origin  has  been  told  :  but  the  intention  of  leaving  such 
a  record  had  been  also  in  his  mind  at  an  earlier  date  {anie,  38) ; 
and  it  was  the  very  depth  of  our  interest  in  the  opening  of  his 
fragment  that  led  to  the  larger  design  in  which  it  became  ab- 
sorbed. *  I  hardly  know  why  I  write  this,'  was  his  own  comment  Personal 
on  one  of  his  personal  revelations,  *  but  the  more  than  friendship 
'  which  has  grown  between  us  seems  to  force  it  on  me  in  my 
present  mood.    We  shall  speak  of  it  all,  you  and  I,  Heaven 

*  grant,  wisely  and  wonderingly  many  and  many  a  time  in  after 

*  years.    In  the  meanwhile  I  am  more  at  rest  for  having  opened 

*  all  my  heart  and  mind  to  you.  .  .  This  day  eleven  years,  poor  i.  7,. 

*  dear  Mary  died.' 


92 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  VI. 


London:      That  Was  written  on  the  seventh  of  May  1848,  but  another 

1848-51.  ,  .  .  /  -T  ) 

 sadness  impending  at  the  time  was  taking  his  thoughts  still 

Early 

memories,  farther  back ;  to  when  he  trotted  about  with  his  little  elder  sister 
in  the  small  garden  to  the  house  at  Portsea.  The  faint  hope  for 
her  which  EUiotson  had  given  him  in  Paris  had  since  completely 
broken  down ;  and  I  was  to  hear,  in  less  than  two  months  after 
the  letter  just  quoted,  how  nearly  the  end  was  come.  *  A  change 
Eldest  <  took  place  in  poor  Fanny,'  he  wrote  on  the  5  th  of  July,  *  about 
uiness.       <  the  middle  of  the  day  yesterday,  which  took  me  out  there  last 

*  night.    Her  cough  suddenly  ceased  almost,  and,  strange  to  say, 

*  she  immediately  became  aware  of  her  hopeless  state ;  to  which 

*  she  resigned  herself,  after  an  hour's  unrest  and  struggle,  with 

*  extraordinary  sweetness  and  constancy.    The  irritability  passed, 

*  and  all  hope  faded  away ;  though  only  two  nights  before,  she 

*  had  been  planning  for  "  after  Christmas."    She  is  greatly 

*  changed.    I  had  a  long  interview  with  her  to-day,  alone ;  and 

*  when  she  had  expressed  some  wishes  about  the  funeral,  and  her 

*  being  buried  in  unconsecrated  ground '  (Mr.  Burnett's  family 
were  dissenters),  '  I  asked  her  whether  she  had  any  care  or 

siJk-bed     *  anxiety  in  the  world.    She  said  No,  none.    It  was  hard  to  die 

*  at  such  a  time  of  life,  but  she  had  no  alarm  whatever  in  the 
*■  prospect  of  the  change ;  felt  sure  we  should  meet  again  in  a 

*  better  world ;  and  although  they  had  said  she  might  rally  for  a 
'  time,  did  not  really  wish  it.    She  said  she  was  quite  calm  and 

*  happy,  relied  upon  the  mediation  of  Christ,  and  had  no  terror 
'  at  all.    She  had  worked  very  hard,  even  when  ill ;  but  believed 

*  that  was  in  her  nature,  and  neither  regretted  nor  complained 
'  of  it.    Burnett  had  been  always  very  good  to  her ;  they  had 

*  never  quarrelled ;  she  was  sorry  to  think  of  his  going  back  to 
Last         <  such  a  lonely  home  :  and  was  distressed  about  her  children, 

thoughts.  ^  '  ' 

*  but  not  painfully  so.    She  showed  me  how  thin  and  worn  she 

*  was ;  spoke  about  an  invention  she  had  heard  of  that  she  would 

*  like  to  have  tried,  for  the  deformed  child's  back  ;  called  to  my 
'  remembrance  all  our  sister  Letitia's  patience  and  steadiness ; 

*  and,  though  she  shed  tears  sometimes,  clearly  impressed  upon 

*  me  that  her  mind  was  made  up,  and  at  rest    I  asked  her  very 

*  often,  if  she  could  ever  recall  anything  that  she  could  le^^-ve  to 


§  VI.] 


Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 


93 


*  my  doing,  to  put  it  down,  or  mention  it  to  somebody  if  I  was  London  : 

*  not  there ;  and  she  said  she  would,  but  she  firmly  believed  that  ■ 

*  there  was  nothing — nothing.    Her  husband  being  young,  she 

*  said,  and  her  children  infants,  she  could  not  help  thinking  some- 

*  times,  that  it  would  be  very  long  in  the  course  of  nature  before 

*  they  were  reunited  ;  but  she  knew  that  was  a  mere  human 

*  fancy,  and  could  have  no  reality  after  she  was  dead.    Such  an 

*  affecting  exhibition  of  strength  and  tenderness,  in  all  that  early 

*  decay,  is  quite  indescribable.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  it 
'  moved  me.    I  cannot  look  round  upon  the  dear  children  here, 

*  without  some  misgiving  that  this  sad  disease  will  not  perish  out 

*  of  our  blood  with  her ;  but  I  am  sure  I  have  no  selfishness  in 

*  the  thought,  and  God  knows  how  small  the  world  looks  to 
'  one  who  comes  out  of  such  a  sick-room  on  a  bright  summer 
'  day.    I  don't  know  why  I  write  this  before  going  to  bed.  I 

*  only  know  that  in  the  very  pity  and  grief  of  my  heart,  I  feel  as 

*  if  it  were  doing  something.'    After  not  many  weeks  she  died,  ^^^^^ 
and  the  little  child  who  was  her  last  anxiety  did  not  long  survive 

her. 

In  all  the  later  part  of  the  year  Dickens's  thoughts  were 
turning  much  to  the  form  his  next  book  should  assume.    A  Book  to 
suggestion  that  he  should  write  it  in  the  first  person,  by  way  of  early  life, 
change,  had  been  thrown  out  by  me,  which  he  took  at  once  very 
gravely ;  and  this,  with  other  things,  though  as  yet  not  dreaming 
of  any  public  use  of  his  early  personal  trials,  conspired  to 
bring  about  the  resolve  to  use  them.    His  determination  once 
taken,  with  what  a  singular  truthfulness  he  contrived  to  blend  the 
fact  with  the  fiction  may  be  shown  by  a  small  occurrence  of 
this  time.    It  has  been  inferred,  from  the  vividness  of  the  boy- 
impressions  of  Yarmouth  in  David's  earliest  experiences,  that  the 
place  must  have  been  familiar  to  his  own  boyhood  :  but  the 
truth  was  that  at  the  close  of  1848  he  first  saw  that  celebrated 
sea-port    One  of  its  earlier  months  had  been  signalized  by  an 
adventure  in  which  Leech,  Lemon,  and  myself  took  part  with 
him,  when,  obtaining  horses  from  Salisbury,  we  passed  the  whole  Riding  over 
of  a  March  day  in  riding  over  every  part  of  the  Plain ;  visiting  phiJ""^ 
Stonehenge,  and  exploring  Hazlitt's  '  hut '  at  Winterslow,  birth- 


94 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


London : 
1848-51. 


Scene  of 
the  Rush 
murders. 


First  sees 
Yarmouth. 


Birth  of 

sixth  son. 


place  of  some  of  his  finest  essays  ;  altogether  with  so  brilliant  a 
success  that  now  (13th  of  November)  he  proposed  to  'repeat  the 

*  Salisbury  Plain  idea  in  a  new  direction  in  mid-winter,  to  wit 

*  Blackgang  Chine  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  with  dark  winter  cliffs 

*  and  roaring  oceans.'  But  mid-winter  brought  with  it  too  much 
dreariness  of  its  own,  to  render  these  stormy  accompaniments  to 
it  very  palataole  ;  and  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  he  bethought 
hin?  *  It  would  be  better  to  make  an  outburst  to  some  old  cathe- 

*  dral  city  we  don't  know,  and  what  do  you  say  to  Norwich  and 

*  Stanfield-hall  ? '  Thither  accordingly  the  three  friends  went, 
illness  at  the  last  disabling  me  ;  and  of  the  result  I  heard  (12th  of 
January,  1849)  ^^^^  Stanfield-hall,  the  scene  of  a  recent  frightful 
tragedy,  had  nothing  attractive  unless  the  term  might  be  applied 
to  '  a  murderous  look  that  seemed  to  invite  such  a  crime.  We 

*  arrived,'  continued  Dickens,  *  between  the  Hall  and  Potass 

*  farm,  as  the  search  was  going  on  for  the  pistol  in  a  manner  so 

*  consummately  stupid,  that  there  was  nothing  on  earth  to  pre- 

*  vent  any  of  Rush's  labourers  from  accepting  five  pounds  from 

*  Rush  junior  to  find  the  weapon  and  give  it  to  him.  Norwich,  a 
'  disappointment '  (one  pleasant  face  *  transformeth  a  city,'  but  he 
was  unable  yet  to  connect  it  with  our  delightful  friend  Elwin) ; 

*  all  save  its  place  of  execution,  which  we  found  fit  for  a  gigantic 

*  scoundrel's  exit.    But  the  success  of  the  trip,  for  me,  was  to 

*  come.    Yarmouth,   sir,   where  we  went   afterwards,   is  the 

*  strangest  place  in  the  wide  world  :  one  hundred  and  forty-six 

*  miles  of  hill-less  marsh  between  it  and  London.    More  when 

*  we  meet.  I  shall  certainly  try  my  hand  at  it'  He  made  it  the 
home  of  his  *  Htde  Em'ly.' 

Everything  now  was  taking  that  direction  with  him ;  and  soon, 
to  give  his  own  account  of  it,  his  mind  was  upon  names  'running 

*  like  a  high  sea.'  Four  days  after  the  date  of  the  last-quoted 
letter  (*  all  over  happily,  thank  God,  by  four  o'clock  this  morning ') 
there  came  the  birth  of  his  eighth  child  and  sixth  son ;  whom  at 
first  he  meant  to  call  by  Oliver  Goldsmith's  name,  but  settled 
afterwards  into  that  of  Henry  Fielding ;  and  to  whom  that  early 
friend  Ainsworth  who  had  first  made  us  known  to  each  other, 
welcome  and  pleasant  companion  always,  was  asked  to  be  god- 


§  VI.] 


Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


95 


father.    Telling  me  of  the  change  in  the  name  of  the  little  fellow,  ^^^^^^^  • 

which  he  had  made  in  a  kind  of  homage  to  the  style  of  work  he  

was  now  so  bent  on  beginning,  he  added,  'What  should  you 

*  think  of  this  for  a  notion  of  a  character  ?    "  Yes,  that  is  very 

*  "  true  :  but  now,  Whafs  his  motive  ?"    I  fancy  I  could  make  Notion  for 

a  character. 

'  something  Hke  it  into  a  kind  of  amusing  and  more  innocent 

*  Pecksniff.    *'  Well  now,  yes — no  doubt  that  was  a  fine  thing  to 

*  "  do  !  But  now,  stop  a  moment,  let  us  see —  Whafs  his 
^  motive  Here  again  was  but  one  of  the  many  outward 
signs  of  fancy  and  fertility  that  accompanied  the  outset  of  all  his 
more  important  books;  though,  as  in  their  cases  also,  other 
moods  of  the  mind  incident  to  such  beginnings  were  less 
favourable.    *  Deepest  despondency,  as  usual,  in  commencing, 

*  besets  me ; '  is  the  opening  of  the  letter  in  which  he  speaks  of 
what  of  course  was  always  one  of  his  first  anxieties,  the  selection 
of  a  name.  In  this  particular  instance  he  had  been  undergoing 
doubts  and  misgivings  to  more  than  the  usual  degree.    It  was 

not  until  the  23rd  of  February  he  got  to  anything  like  the  shape  Choosing 
of  a  feasible  title.    *  I  should  like  to  know  how  the  enclosed  (one 
'  of  those   I  have  been  thinking  of)  strikes  you,  on  a  first 

*  acquaintance  with  it.    It  is  odd,  I  think,  and  new  ;  but  it  may 

*  have  A's  difiiculty  of  being  "  too  comic,  my  boy."    I  suppose  I 

*  should  have  to  add,  though,  by  way  of  motto,    And  in  short  it 

*  " led  to  the  very  Mag's  Diversions.    Old  Savins:"    Or  would  it  Mag's 

^         °  ^  Diversions. 

*  be  better,  there  being  equal  authority  for  either,    And  in  short 

*  "  they  all  played  Mag's  Diversions.    Old  Sayin%  t  " 

*  Mag's  Diversions. 
'  Being  the  personal  history  ot 
'Mr.  Thomas  Mag  the  Younger, 
'  Of  Blunderstone  House.' 

This  was  hardly  satisfactory,  I  thought ;  and  it  soon  became 
apparent  that  he  thought  so  too,  although  within  the  next  three 
days  I  had  it  in  three  other  forms.    '  Ma^s  Diversions^  being  the  Thomas 

*  Personal  History,  Adventures,  Experience,  and  Observation  of  David. 

*  Mr.  David  Mag  the  Younger,  of  Blunderstone  House.'  The 


96 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London : 
1848-51. 


Blunder- 
stone  be- 
comes Cop- 
perfield. 


*  Copper- 
'  field ' 
chosen. 


second  omitted  Adventures,  and  called  his  hero  Mr.  David  Mag 
the  Younger,  of  Copperfield  House.  The  third  made  nearer 
approach  to  what  the  destinies  were  leading  him  to,  and  trans- 
formed Mr.  David  Mag  into  Mr.  David  Copperfield  the  Younger 
and  his  great-aunt  Margaret ;  retaining  still  as  his  leading  title, 
Ma£s  Diversions.  It  is  singular  that  it  should  never  have 
occurred  to  him,  while  the  name  was  thus  strangely  as  by  accident 
bringing  itself  together,  that  the  initials  were  but  his  own  reversed. 
He  was  much  startled  when  I  pointed  this  out,  and  protested 
it  was  just  in  keeping  with  the  fates  and  chances  which  were 
always  befalling  him.    '  Why  else,'  he  said,  *  should  I  so  obsti- 

*  nately  have  kept  to  that  name  when  once  it  turned  up  ?  ' 

It  was  quite  true  that  he  did  so,  as  I  had  curious  proof  following 
close  upon  the  heels  of  his  third  proposal.  '  I  wish,'  he  wrote 
on  the  26th  of  February,  'you  would  look  over  carefully  the  titles 
'  now  enclosed,  and  tell  me  to  which  you  most  incline.    You  will 

*  see  that  they  give  up  Mag  altogether,  and  refer  exclusively  to 
^  one  name — that  which  I  last  sent  you.    I  doubt  whether  I 

*  could,  on  the  whole,  get  a  better  name. 


Varieties 
proposed. 


The  Copperfield  Disclosures.  Be- 

*  ing  the  personal  history,  expe- 

*  rience,  and  observation,  of  Mr. 

*  David  Copperfield  the  Younger, 

*  of  Blunderstone  House. 

The  Copperfield  Records.  Being 

*  the  personal  history,  experience, 

*  and  observation,  of  Mr.  David 

*  Copperfield  the  Younger,  of 

*  Copperfield  Cottage. 

The  Last  Living  Speech  and  Con' 

*  fession  of  David  Coppa-field, 
'  yunior,  of  Blunderstone  Lodge, 

*  w^ho  was  never  executed  at  the 

*  Old  Bailey.   Being  his  personal 

*  history  found  among  his  papers. 


The   Copperfield  Swvey  of  the 

*  World  as  it  Rolled.    Being  the 

*  personal  history,  experience,  and 
'  observation  of  David  Copper- 
'  field  the  Younger,  of  Blunder- 

*  stone  Rookery. 

The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 

*  Mr.  David  Copperfield.  Being 

*  his  personal  history  left  as  a 

*  legacy. 

Copperfield,  Complete.  Being  the 
'  whole  personal  history  and  ex- 

*  perience  of  Mr.  David  Copper- 

*  field  of  Blunderstone  House, 
'  which  he  never  meant  to  be 
'  published  on  any  account. 


'  Or,  the  opening  words  of  No.  6  might  be  Copperfield' s  Entire ; 

*  and  The  Copperfield  Confessions  might  open  Nos.  i  and  2.  Now, 

*  WHAT  SAY  YOU  ? ' 

What  I  said  is  to  be  inferred  from  what  he  wrote  back  on  the 
28th.    *  The  Survey  has  been  my  favourite  from  the  first.  Kate 


§  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 


97 


'  picked  it  out  from  the  rest,  without  my  saying  anything  about  it   London  : 

1848-51. 

*  Georgy  too.    You  hit  upon  it,  on  the  first  glance.    Therefore  I  

*■  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  indisputably  the  best  title ;  and  I  will 

'  stick  to  it'  There  was  a  change  nevertheless.  His  completion 
of  the  second  chapter  defined  to  himself,  more  clearly  than  before, 
the  character  of  the  book ;  and  the  propriety  of  rejecting  every- 
thing not  strictly  personal  from  the  name  given  to  it.    The  words 

proposed,  therefore,  became  ultimately  these  only  :  '  The  Personal  Doubts  de- 
termined. 

*  History,  Adventures,  Experience,  and  Observation  of  David 

*  Copperfield  the  Younger,  of  Blunderstone  Rookery,  which  he 

*  never  meant  to  be  pubHshed  on  any  account'  And  the  letter 
which  told  me  that  with  this  name  it  was  finally  to  be  launched 
on  the  first  of  May,  told  me  also  (19th  April)  the  difficulties  that 

still  beset  him  at  the  opening.    '  My  hand  is  out  in  the  matter  of  Difficulties 

of  opening. 

'  Copperfield.  To-day  and  yesterday  I  have  done  nothing.  Though 

*  I  know  what  I  want  to  do,  I  am  lumbering  on  like  a  stage- 

*  waggon.    I  can't  even  dine  at  the  Temple  to-day,  I  feel  it  so 

*  important  to  stick  at  it  this  evening,  and  make  some  head.  I 

*  am  quite  aground ;  quite  a  literary  Benedict,  as  he  appeared 

*  when  his  heels  wouldn't  stay  upon  the  carpet ;  and  the  long 

*  Copperfieldian  perspective  looks  snowy  and  thick,  this  fine 

*  morning.'*    The  allusion  was  to  a  dinner  at  his  house  the  night 
before  ;  when  not  only  Rogers  had  to  be  borne  out,  having  fallen  Remem- 
sick  at  the  table,  but,  as  we  rose  soon  after  to  quit  the  dining-  dinner, 
room,  Mr.  Jules  Benedict  had  quite  suddenly  followed  the  poet's 
lead,  and  fallen  prostrate  on  the  carpet  in  the  midst  ot  us.  Amid 

the  general  consternation  there  seemed  a  want  of  proper  attendance 
on  the  sick:  the  distinguished  musician  faring  in  this  respect 
hardly  so  well  as  the  famous  bard,  by  whose  protracted  sufferings 
in  the  library,  whither  he  had  been  removed,  the  sanitary  help 
available  on  the  establishment  was  still  absorbed  :  and  as  Dickens 
had  been  eloquent  during  dinner  on  the  atrocities  of  a  pauper- 

*  From  letters  of  nearly  the  same  '  until  half-past  two  on  such  a  day  .  . 

date  here  is  another  characteristic  *  Indian  news  bad  indeed.  Sad  things 

word :  *  Pen  and  ink  before  me  !    Am  '  come  of  bloody  war.    If  it  were  not 

*  I  not  at  work  on  Copperfield!    No-  *  for  Elihu,  I  should  be  a  peace  and 

*  thing  else  would  have  kept  me  here  *  arbitration  man.' 

VOL.  II.  H 


98  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 

LoNixm:  farming  case  at  Tooting  which  was  then  exciting  a  fury  of 
indignation,  Fonblanque  now  declared  him  to  be  no  better  him- 
self than  a  second  Drouet,  reducing  his  guests  to  a  lamentable 
state  by  the  food  he  had  given  them,  and  aggravating  their  sad 
condition  by  absence  of  all  proper  nursing.  The  joke  was  well 
kept  up  by  Quin  and  Edwin  Landseer,  Lord  Strangford  joining 
in  with  a  tragic  sympathy  for  his  friend  the  poet ;  and  the  banquet 
so  dolefully  interrupted  ended  in  uproarious  mirth.  For  nothing 
really  serious  had  happened.    Benedict  went  laughing  away  with 

fhat  ellds  his  wife,  and  I  helped  Rogers  on  with  his  over-shoes  for  his  usual 
night-walk  home.  *  Do  you  know  how  many  waistcoats  I  wear  ?' 
asked  the  poet  of  me,  as  I  was  doing  him  this  service.  I  pro- 
fessed my  inability  to  guess.  *  Five  !  "  he  said  :  *  and  here  they 
*  are  ! '  Upon  which  he  opened  them,  in  the  manner  of  the 
gravedigger  in  Hamlet,  and  showed  me  every  one. 

That  dinner  was  in  the  April  of  1849,  and  among  others 
present  were  Mrs.  Procter  and  Mrs.  Macready,  dear  and  familiar 
names  always  in  his  house.  No  swifter  or  surer  perception  than 
Dickens's  for  what  was  solid  and  beautiful  in  character ;  he  rated 
it  higher  than  intellectual  effort ;  and  the  same  lofty  place,  first  in 

Procter  and  his  affcction  and  respect,  would  have,  been  Macready's  and 

Macready. 

Procter's,  if  the  one  had  not  been  the  greatest  of  actors,  and  the 
other  a  poet  as  genuine  as  old  Fletcher  or  Beaumont.  There 
were  present  at  this  dinner  also  the  American  minister  and 
Mrs.  Bancroft  (it  was  the  year  of  that  visit  of  Macready  to 
America,  which  ended  in  the  disastrous  Forrest  riots) ;  and  it  had 
among  its  guests  Lady  Graham,  the  wife  of  Sir  James  Graham 
and  sister  of  Tom  Sheridan's  wife,  than  whom  not  even  the  wit 

She^ridans  bcauty  of  her  nieces,  Mrs.  Norton  and  Lady  Dufferin,  did 

greater  justice  to  the  brilliant  family  of  the  Sheridans ;  so  many 
of  whose  members,  and  these  three  above  all,  Dickens  prized 
among  his  friends.  The  table  that  day  will  be  *  full '  if  I  add  the 
celebrated  singer  Miss  Catherine  Hayes,  and  her  homely  good- 
natured  Irish  mother,  who  startled  us  all  very  much  by  com- 

compii-^  plimenting  Mrs.  Dickens  on  her  having  had  for  her  father  so 
clever  a  painter  as  Mr.  Hogarth. 

Others  familiar  to  Devonshire-terrace  in  these  years  will  be 


§  VI.]        Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


99 


indicated  if  I  name  an  earlier  dinner  (3rd  of  January),  for  the  - 

*  christening'  of  the  Haunied  Man,  when,  besides  Lemons,   

Evanses,  Leeches,  Bradburys,  and  Stanfields,  there  were  present 
Tenniel,  Topham,  Stone,  Robert  Bell,  and  Thomas  Beard.  Next 

month  (24th  of  March)  I  met  at  his  table,  Lord  and  Lady  Love- 
lace ;  Milner  Gibson,  Mowbray  Morris,  Horace  Twiss,  and  their 
wives;  Lady  Molesworth  and  her  daughter  (Mrs.  Ford);  John 
Hardwick,  Charles  Babbage,  and  Doctor  Locock.  That  dis- 
tinguished physician  had  attended  the  poor  girl,  Miss  Aber- 
crombie,  whose  death  by  strychnine  led  to  the  exposure  of 
Wainewright's  murders ;  and  the  opinion  he  had  formed  of  her  ^'^'^'^^ 
chances  of  recovery,  the  external  indications  of  that  poison  being  murders, 
then  but  imperfectly  known,  was  first  shaken,  he  told  me,  by  the 
gloomy  and  despairing  cries  of  the  old  family  nurse,  that  her 
mother  and  her  uncle  had  died  exactly  so  !  These,  it  was  after- 
wards proved,  had  been  among  the  murderer's  former  victims. 
The  Lovelaces  were  frequent  guests  after  the  return  from  Italy, 
Sir  George  Crawford,  so  friendly  in  Genoa,  having  married  Lord 
Lovelace's  sister ;  and  few  had  a  greater  warmth  of  admiration 
for  Dickens  than  Lord  Byron's  '  Ada,'  on  whom  Paul  Dombey's  Lord 

_  Byron's 

death  laid  a  strange  fascination.    They  were  again  at  a  dinner  a^^- 
got  up  in  the  following  year  for  Scribe  and  the  composer  Halevy, 
who  had  come  over  to  bring  out  the  Tempest  at  Her  Majesty's 
theatre,  then  managed  by  Mr.  Lumley,  who  with  M.  Van  de  Dmner  to 

Halevy  and 

Weyer,  Mrs.  Gore  and  her  daughter,  the  Hogarths,  and  I  think  Scribe, 
the  fine  French  comedian,  Samson,  were  also  amongst  those 
present.  Earlier  that  year  there  were  gathered  at  his  dinner- 
table  the  John  Delanes,  Isambard  Brunels,  Thomas  Longmans 
(friends  since  the  earliest  Broadstairs  days,  and  special  favourites 
always),  Lord  Mulgrave,  and  Lord  Carlisle,  with  all  of  whom  his 
intercourse  v/as  intimate  and  frequent,  and  became  especially  so 
with  Delane  in  later  years.  Lord  Carlisle  amused  us  that  night, 
I  remember,  by  repeating  what  the  good  old  Brougham  had  said 
to  him  of  '  those  Fu7ich  people,'  expressing  what  was  really  his  Brougham 

and  the 

fixed  belief.    *  They  never  get  my  face,  and  are  obliged '  (which,  '  P'*»<^^ 

*  people.' 

like  Pope,  he  always  pronounced  obleeged)  *  to  put  up  with  my 

*  plaid  trousers  ! '    Of  Lord  Mulgrave,  pleasantly  associated  with 


lOO 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London : 
1848-51. 


With  Lord 
Mulgrave. 


The  Duke 
at  Vaux- 
hall. 


Dinner 
after  first 
Copper- 
field. 


Carlyle. 


Thackeray. 


the  first  American  experiences,  let  me  add  that  he  now  went  with 
us  to  several  outlying  places  of  amusement  of  which  he  wished  to 
acquire  some  knowledge,  and  which  Dickens  knew  better  than 
any  man  \  small  theatres,  saloons,  and  gardens  in  city  or  borough, 
to  which  the  Eagle  and  Britannia  were  as  palaces ;  and  I  think 
he  was  of  the  party  one  famous  night  in  the  summer  of  1849 
(29th  of  June),  when  with  Talfourd,  Edwin  Landseer,  and  Stan- 
field  we  went  to  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  at  Vauxhall,  and  were 
astounded  to  see  pass  in  immediately  before  us,  in  a  bright  white 
overcoat,  the  great  Duke  himself.  Lady  Douro  on  his  arm,  the 
httle  Ladies  Ramsay  by  his  side,  and  everybody  cheering  and 
clearing  the  way  before  him.  That  the  old  hero  enjoyed  it  all, 
there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  he  made  no  secret  of  his  delight  in 
*  Young  Hernandez  ; '  but  the  *  Battle '  was  undeniably  tedious, 
and  it  was  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  the  repeatedly  and 
very  audibly  expressed  wish  of  Talfourd,  that  '  the  Prussians 
'  would  come  up  ! ' 

The  preceding  month  was  that  of  the  start  of  David  Copperjield, 
and  to  one  more  dinner  (on  the  T2th)  I  may  especially  refer  for 
those  who  were  present  at  it.  Carlyle  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  came, 
Thackeray  and  Rogers,  Mrs.  Gaskell  and  Kenyon,  Jerrold  and 
Hablot  Browne,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tagart ;  and  it  was  a  delight 
to  see  the  enjoyment  of  Dickens  at  Carlyle's  laughing  reply 
to  questions  about  his  health,  that  he  was,  in  the  language  of 
Mr.  Peggotty's  housekeeper,  a  lorn  lone  creature  and  everything 
went  contrairy  with  him.  Things  were  not  likely  to  go  better,  I 
thought,  as  I  saw  the  great  writer, — kindest  as  well  as  wisest  of 
men,  but  not  very  patient  under  sentimental  philosophies, — 
seated  next  the  good  Mr.  Tagart,  who  soon  was  heard  launching 
at  him  various  metaphysical  questions  in  regard  to  heaven  and 
such  like ;  and  the  relief  was  great  when  Thackeray  introduced, 
with  quaint  whimsicality,  a  story  which  he  and  I  had  heard 
Macready  relate  in  talking  to  us  about  his  boyish  days,  of  a 
country  actor  who  had  supported  himself  for  six  months  on  his 
judicious  treatment  of  the  *tag'  to  the  Castle  Spectre.  In  the 
original  it  stands  that  you  are  to  do  away  with  suspicion,  banish 
vile  mistrust,  and,  almost  in  the  words  we  had  just  heard  from  the 


§  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


lOI 


minister  to  the  philosopher,  *  Believe  there  is  a  heaven  nor  Doubt  • 

*  that  heaven  is  just ! '  in  place  of  which  Macready's  friend,  J^^j~7~ 
observing  that  the  drop  fell  for  the  most  part  quite  coldly,  substi-  ^^^^"^  °^ 
tuted  one  night  the  more  telling  appeal,  *And  give  us  your 

*  Applause,  for  that  is  always  just  ! '  which  brought  down  the 
house  with  rapture. 

This  chapter  would  far  outrun  its  limits  if  I  spoke  of  other  as 
pleasant  gatherings  under  Dickens's  roof  during  the  years  which 
I  am  now  more  particularly  describing ;  when,  besides  the  dinners, 
the  musical  enjoyments  and  dancings,  as  his  children  became  able 
to  take  part  in  them,  were  incessant.  *  Remember  that  for  my 
'Biography!'  he  said  to  me  gravely  on  twelfth-day  in  1849, 
after  telling  me  what  he  had  done  the  night  before  ;  and  as  gravely 
I  now  redeem  my  laughing  promise  that  I  would.  Little  Mary 
and  her  sister  Kate  had  taken  much  pains  to  teach  their  father 
the  polka,  that  he  might  dance  it  with  them  at  their  brother's 
birthday  festivity  (held  this  year  on  the  7th,  as  the  6th  was  a 
Sunday) ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  previous  night  as  he  lay  in 
bed,  the  fear  had  fallen  on  him  suddenly  that  the  step  was  for- 
gotten, and  then  and  there,  in  that  wintry  dark  cold  night,  he  got 
out  of  bed  to  practise  it.  Anything  more  characteristic  could 
hardly  be  told,  unless  I  were  able  to  show  him  dancing  it  after- 
wards, and  excelling  the  youngest  performer  in  untiring  vigour 
and  vivacity.  There  was  no  one  who  approached  him  on  these  Marryat's 
occasions  excepting  only  our  attached  friend  Captain  Marryat,  wttif 
who  had  a  frantic  delight  in  dancing,  especially  with  children,  of 
whom  and  whose  enjoyments  he  was  as  fond  as  it  became  so 
thoroughly  good  hearted  a  man  to  be.  His  name  would  have 
stood  first  among  those  I  have  been  recalling,  as  he  was  among 
the  first  in  Dickens's  liking;  but  in  the  autumn  of  1848  he  had 
unexpectedly  passed  away.  Other  names  however  still  reproach 
me  for  omission  as  my  memory  goes  back.  With  Marryat's  on 
a  former  page  of  this  book  stands  that  of  Monckton  Milnes,  Moncktou 
familiar  with  Dickens  over  all  the  period  since,  and  still  more 
prominent  in  Tavistock-house  days  when  with  Lady  Houghton 
he  brought  fresh  claims  to  my  friend's  admiration  and  regard.  Of 
Bulwer  Lytton's  frequent  presence  in  all  his  houses,  and  of 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


Dickens^s  admiration  for  him  as  one  of  the  supreme  masters  in 
his  art,  so  unswerving  and  so  often  pubHcly  declared,  it  would  be 
needless  again  to  speak.  Nor  shall  I  dwell  upon  his  interchange 
of  hospitalities  with  distinguished  men  in  the  two  great  professions 
so  closely  allied  to  literature  and  its  followers ;  Denmans,  Pollocks, 
Campbells,  and  Chittys  ;  Watsons,  Southwood  Smiths,  Lococks, 
and  Elliotsons.  To  Alfred  Tennyson,  through  all  the  friendly 
and  familiar  days  I  am  describing,  he  gave  full  allegiance  and 
honoured  welcome.  Tom  Taylor  was  often  with  him  ;  and  there 
was  a  charm  for  him  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  exaggerate  in 
Lord  Dudley  Stuart's  gentle  yet  noble  character,  his  refined 
intelligence  and  generous  public  life,  expressed  so  perfectly  in 
his  chivalrous  face.  Incomplete  indeed  would  be  the  list  if  I  did 
not  add  to  it  the  frank  and  hearty  Lord  Nugent,  who  had  so 
much  of  his  grandfather,  Goldsmith's  friend,  in  his  lettered  tastes 
and  jovial  enjoyments.  Nor  should  I  forget  occasional  days  with 
dear  old  Charles  Kemble  and  one  or  other  of  his  daughters ;  with 
Alexander  Dyce ;  and  with  Harness  and  his  sister,  or  his  niece 
and  her  husband,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archdale ;  made  especially 
pleasant  by  talk  about  great  days  of  the  stage.  It  was  some- 
thing to  hear  Kemble  on  his  sister's  Mrs.  Beverley;  or  to  see 
Harness  and  Dyce  exultant  in  recollecting  her  Volumnia.  The 
enchantment  of  the  Mrs.  Beverley,  her  brother  would  delightfully 
illustrate  by  imitation  of  her  manner  of  restraining  Beverley'? 
intemperance  to  their  only  friend,  '  You  are  too  busy,  sir  !  *  when 
she  quietly  came  down  the  stage  from  a  table  at  which  she  had 
seemed  to  be  occupying  herself,  laid  her  hand  softly  on  her 
husband's  arm,  and  in  a  gentle  half-whisper  *  No,  not  too  busy ; 
'  mistaken  perhaps;  but — '  not  only  stayed  his  temper  but  reminded 
him  of  obligations  forgotten  in  the  heat  of  it.  Up  to  where  the 
tragic  terror  began,  our  friend  told  us,  there  was  nothing  but 
this  composed  domestic  sweetness,  expressed  even  in  the  simplicity 
and  neat  arrangement  of  her  dress,  her  cap  with  the  strait  band, 
and  her  hair  gathered  up  underneath ;  but  all  changing  when  the 
passion  did  begin ;  one  single  disordered  lock  escaping  at  the 
first  outbreak,  and,  in  the  final  madness,  all  of  it  streaming 
dishevelled  down  her  beautiful  face.    Kemble  made  no  secret 


§VI.] 


Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 


103 


of  his  belief  that  his  sister  had  the  highest  genius  of  the  two ;  London  : 

but  he  spoke  with  rapture  of  '  John's  *  Macbeth  and  parts  of  his  

Othello ;  comparing  his  *  Farewell  the  tranquil  mind '  to  the  Kembie. 
running  down  of  a  clock,  an  image  which  he  did  not  know  that 
Hazlitt  had  applied  to  the  delivery  of  '  To-morrow  and  to-morrow/ 
in  the  other  tragedy.  In  all  this  Harness  seemed  to  agree;  and 
I  thought  a  distinction  was  not  ill  put  by  him,  on  the  night  of 
which  I  speak,  in  his  remark  that  the  nature  in  Kemble's  acting  9oo4 

r        J  o  tinction. 

only  supplemented  his  magnificent  art,  whereas,  though  the  artist 
was  not  less  supreme  in  his  sister,  it  was  on  nature  she  most 
relied,  bringing  up  the  other  power  only  to  the  aid  of  it.  '  It  was 
'  in  another  sense  like  your  writing,'  said  Harness  to  Dickens, 

*  the  commonest  natural  feelings  made  great,  even  when  not 

*  rendered  more  refined,  by  art.'  Her  Constance  would  have 
been  fishwify,  he  declared,  if  its  wonderful  truth  had  not  over- 
borne every  other  feeling;  and  her  Volumnia  escaped  being 
vulgar  only  by  being  so  excessively  grand.  But  it  was  just  what 
was  so  called  '  vulgarity '  that  made  its  passionate  appeal  to  the 
vulgar  in  a  better  meaning  of  the  word.  When  she  first  entered. 
Harness  said,  swaying  and  surging  from  side  to  side  with  every 
movement  of  the  Roman  crowd  itself,  as  it  went  out  and  returned 
in  confusion,  she  so  absorbed  her  son  into  herself  as  she  looked 
at  him,  so  swelled  and  amplified  in  her  pride  and  glory  for  him, 
that  '  the  people  in  the  pit  blubbered  all  round,'  and  he  could  no 
more  help  it  than  the  rest 

There  are  yet  some  other  names  that  should  have  place  in 
these  rambling  recollections,  though  I  by  no  means  afiect  to 
remember  all.  One  Sunday  evening  Mazzini  made  memorable  MazzinL 
by  taking  us  to  see  the  school  he  had  estabHshed  in  Clerkenwell 
for  the  Italian  organ-boys.  This  was  after  dining  with  Dickens, 
who  had  been  brought  into  personal  intercourse  with  the  great 
Italian  by  having  given  money  to  a  begging  impostor  who  made 
unauthorized  use  of  his  name.    Edinburgh  friends  made  him  Edinburgh 

"  friends. 

regular  visits  in  the  spring  time  :  not  Jeffrey  and  his  family  alone, 
but  sheriff'  Gordon  and  his,  with  whom  he  was  not  less  intimate, 
Lord  Murray  and  his  wife.  Sir  William  Allan  and  his  niece.  Lord 
Robertson  with  his  wonderful  Scotch  mimicries,  and  Peter  Fraser 


I04  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


London :  with  his  enchanting  Scotch  songs ;  our  excellent  friend  Listen 
^  the  surgeon,  until  his  fatal  illness  came  in  December  1848,  being 

seldom  absent  from  those  assembled  to  bid  such  visitors  welcome. 
Allan's  name  may  remind  me  of  other  artists  often  at  his  house, 
Eastlakes,  Leslies,  Friths,  and  Wards,  besides  those  who  have 
had  frequent  mention,  and  among  whom  I  should  have  included 
Charles  as  well  as  Edwin  Landseer,  and  William  Boxall.  Nor 
should  I  drop  from  this  section  of  his  friends,  than  whom  none 
were  more  attractive  to  him,  such  celebrated  names  in  the  sister 
arts  as  those  of  Miss  Helen  Faucit,  an  actress  worthily  associated 

acquaint-  ' 

ance.  ^hc  brightest  days  of  our  friend  Macready's  managements, 

Mr.  Sims  Reeves,  Mr.  John  Parry,  Mr.  Phelps,  Mr.  Webster, 
Mr.  Harley,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keeley,  Mr.  Whitworth,  and  Miss 
Dolby.  Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes  he  had  an  old  and  great 
regard  for ;  among  other  men  of  letters  should  not  be  forgotten 
the  cordial  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  and  many-sided  true-hearted 
Charles  Knight ;  Mr.  R.  H.  Home  and  his  wife  were  frequent 

visitors  at    visltors  both  in  London  and  at  seaside  holidays  :  and  I  have 

his  house. 

met  at  his  table  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall.  There  were  the  Duff 
Gordons  too,  the  Lyells,  and,  very  old  friends  of  us  both,  the 
Emerson  Tennents ;  there  was  the  good  George  Raymond ;  Mr. 
Frank  Beard  and  his  wife ;  the  Porter  Smiths,  valued  for 
Macready's  sake  as  well  as  their  own ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles 
Black,  near  connections  by  marriage  of  George  Cattermole,  with 
whom  there  was  intimate  intercourse  both  before  and  during  the 
residence  in  Italy ;  Mr.  T.  J.  Thompson,  brother  of  Mrs.  Smithson 
formerly  named,  and  his  wife,  whose  sister  Frederick  Dickens 
married ;  Mr.  Mitton,  his  own  early  companion ;  and  Mrs. 
Torrens,  who  had  played  with  the  amateurs  in  Canada.  These 
are  all  in  my  memory  so  connected  with  Devonshire-terrace,  as 
friends  or  familiar  acquaintance,  that  they  claim  this  word  before 
leaving  it;  and  visitors  from  America,  I  may  remark,  had  always 
a  grateful  reception.  Of  the  Bancrofts  mention  has  been  made, 
and  with  them  should  be  coupled  the  Abbot  Lawrences,  Prescott, 
Friends      Hillard,  George  Curtis,  and  Felton's  brother.     Felton  himself 

from 

America.     did  not  visit  England  until  the  Tavistock-house  time.    In  1847 
there  was  a  delightful  day  with  the  Coldens  and  the  Wilkses, 


§  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


relatives  by  marriage  of  Jeffrey ;  in  the  following  year,  I  think  at  '^^^^^^^  ' 

my  rooms  because  of  some  accident  that  closed  Devonshire-  

terrace  that  day  (25th  of  April),  Dickens,  Carlyle,  and  myself 
foregathered  with  the  admirable  Emerson ;  and  M.  Van  de  Weyer 
will  remember  a  dinner  where  he  took  joyous  part  with  Dickens 
in  running  down  a  phrase  which  the  learned  in  books,  Mr. 
Cogswell,  on  a  mission  here  for  the  Astor  library,  had  startled 
us  by  denouncing  as  an  uncouth  Scotch  barbarism — open  up.  Open  up  * 
You  found  it  constantly  in  Hume,  he  said,  but  hardly  anywhere 
else  j  and  he  defied  us  to  find  it  more  than  once  through  the 
whole  of  the  volumes  of  Gibbon.  Upon  this,  after  brief  wonder 
and  doubt,  we  all  thought  it  best  to  take  part  in  a  general  assault 
upon  open  up,  by  invention  of  phrases  on  the  same  plan  that 
should  show  it  in  exaggerated  burlesque,  and  support  Mr.  Cogs- 
well's indictment.  Then  came  a  struggle  who  should  carry  the 
absurdity  farthest ;  and  the  victory  remained  with  M.  Van  de  Van  do 
Weyer  until  Dickens  surpassed  even  him,  and  '  opened  up '  depths 
of  almost  frenzied  absurdity  that  would  have  delighted  the  heart 
of  Leigh  Hunt.  It  will  introduce  the  last  and  not  least  honoured 
name  into  my  list  of  his  acquaintance  and  friends,  if  I  mention 
his  amusing  little  interruption  one  day  to  Professor  Owen's 
description  of  a  telescope  of  huge  dimensions  built  by  an  enter- 
prising clergyman  who  had  taken  to  the  study  of  the  stars ;  and 
who  was  eager,  said  Owen,  to  see  farther  into  heaven — he  was  Ambition 

"  ,      ^  to  see  into 

going  to  say,  than  Lord  Rosse ;  if  Dickens  had  not  drily  inter-  heaven, 
posed,  *  than  his  professional  studies  had  enabled  him  to  pene- 
*  trate.' 

Some  incidents  that  belong  specially  to  the  three  years  that 
closed  his  residence  in  the  home  thus  associated  with  not  the 
least  interesting  part  of  his  career,  will  farther  show  what  now 
were  his  occupations  and  ways  of  life.  In  the  summer  of  1849 
he  came  up  from  Broadstairs  to  attend  a  Mansion-house  dinner, 
which  the  lord  mayor  of  that  day  had  been  moved  by  a  laudable 
ambition  to  give  to  *  literature  and  art,'  which  he  supposed  would  Literature 
be  adequately  represented  by  the  Royal  Academy,  the  con-  the  city  " 
tributors  to  Punchy  Dickens,  and  one  or  two  newspaper  men. 
On  the  whole  the  result  was  not  cheering ;  the  worthy  chief 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


magistrate,  no  doubt  quite  undesignedly,  expressing  too  much 
-  surprise  at  the  unaccustomed  faces  around  him  to  be  altogether 
complimentary.  In  general  (this  was  the  tone)  we  axe  in  the 
habit  of  having  princes,  dukes,  ministers,  and  what  not  for  our 
guests,  but  what  a  delight,  all  the  greater  for  being  unusual,  to 
see  gentlemen  like  you  !  In  other  words,  what  could  possibly  be 
pleasanter  than  for  people  satiated  with  greatness  to  get  for  a 
while  by  way  of  change  into  the  butler's  pantry  ?  This  in  sub- 
stance was  Dickens's  account  to  me  next  day,  and  his  reason  for 
having  been  very  careful  in  his  acknowledgment  of  the  toast  of 
*■  the  Novelists.'  He  was  nettled  not  a  little  therefore  by  a  jesting 
allusion  to  himself  in  the  Daily  News  in  connection  with  the 
proceedings,  and  asked  me  to  forward  a  remonstrance.  Having 
a  strong  dislike  to  all  such  displays  of  sensitiveness,  I  suppressed 
the  letter;  but  it  is  perhaps  worth  printing  now.  Its  date  is 
Broadstairs,  Wednesday  nth  of  July  1849.    *I  have  no  other 

*  interest  in,  or  concern  with,  a  most  facetious  article  on  last 
'  Saturday's  dinner  at  the  Mansion-house,  which  appeared  in  your 
'  paper  of  yesterday,  and  found  its  way  here  to-day,  than  that  it 
'  misrepresents  me  in  what  I  said  on  the  occasion.    If  you  should 

*  not  think  it  at  all  damaging  to  the  wit  of  that  satire  to  state 

*  what  I  did  say,  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you.  It  was  this.  .  . 
'  That  I  considered  the  compliment  of  a  recognition  of  Literature 

*  by  the  citizens  of  London  the  more  acceptable  to  us  because  it 

*  was  unusual  in  that  hall,  and  likely  to  be  an  advantage  and 
^  benefit  to  them  in  proportion  as  it  became  in  future  less  unusual. 

*  That,  on  behalf  of  the  novelists,  I  accepted  the  tribute  as  an 

*  appropriate  one ;  inasmuch  as  we  had  sometimes  reason  to  hope 

*  that  our  imaginary  worlds  afforded  an  occasional  refuge  to  men 

*  busily  engaged  in  the  toils  of  life,  from  which  they  came  forth 

*  none  the  worse  to  a  renewal  of  its  strivings ;  and  certainly  that 

*  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world  might  be 

*  fitly  regarded  as  the  representative  of  that  class  of  our  readers.' 

Of  an  incident  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  though  it  had 
important  practical  results,  brief  mention  will  here  sufl^ice.  We 
saw  the  Mannings  executed  on  the  walls  of  Horsemonger-lane 
gaol ;  and  with  the  letter  which  Dickens  wrote  next  day  to  the 


§  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace.  107 

Times  descriptive  of  what  we  had  witnessed  on  that  memorable  London  : 

1848-51. 

mommg,  there  began  an  active  agitation  against  public  executions  — 


which  never  ceased  until  the  salutary  change  was  effected  which  Letter 

°  against 

has  worked  so  well.    Shortly  after  this  he  visited  Rockingham-  PJ^e^'^^^Qj^ 
castle,  the  seat  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson,  his  Lausanne  friends ; 
and  I  must  preface  by  a  word  or  two  the  amusing  letter  in  which 
he  told  me  of  this  visit.    It  was  written  in  character,  and  the 
character  was  that  of  an  American  visitor  to  England. 

*  I  knew  him,  Horatio ; '  and  a  very  kindly  honest  man  he  was.  An  Amen- 
who  had  come  to  England  authorised  to  make  enquiry  into  our  server  in 

^  .  England. 

general  agricultiural  condition,  and  who  discharged  his  mission  by 
publishing  some  reports  extremely  creditable  to  his  good  sense 
and  ability,  expressed  in  a  plain  nervous  English  that  reminded 
one  of  the  rural  writings  of  Cobbett.  But  in  an  evil  hour  he 
published  also  a  series  of  private  letters  to  friends  written  from 
the  various  residences  his  introductions  had  opened  to  him ;  and 
these  were  filled  with  revelations  as  to  the  internal  economy  of 
English  noblemen's  country  houses,  of  a  highly  startling  descrip- 
tion. As  for  example,  how,  on  arrival  at  a  house  your  *  name  is 
'  announced,  and  your  portmanteau  immediately  taken  into  your 

*  chamber,  which  the  servant  shows  you,  with  every  convenience.' 
How  *  you  are  asked  by  the  servant  at  breakfast  what  you  will 

*  have,  or  you  get  up  and  help  yourself.'  How  at  dinner  you 
don't  dash  at  the  dishes,  or  contend  for  the  *  fixings,'  but  wait  till 

*  his  portion  is  handed  by  servants  to  every  one.'  How  all  the 
wines,  fruit,  glasses,  candlesticks,  lamps,  and  plate  are  *  taken 

'  care  of  by  butlers,  who  have  under-butlers  for  their  *  adjuncts  ; '  Marvds 
how  ladies  never  wear  '  white  satin  shoes  or  white  gloves  more  mamlefj."^ 

*  than  once  ; '  how  dinner-napkins  are  *  never  left  upon  the  table, 

*  but  either  thrown  into  your  chair  or  on  the  floor  under  the 

*  table  j '  how  no  end  of  pains  are  taken  to  '  empty  slops ; '  and 
above  all  what  a  national  propensity  there  is  to  brush  a  man's 
clothes  and  polish  his  boots,  whensoever  and  wheresoever  the 
clothes  and  boots  can  be  seized  without  the  man.*  This  was 
what  Dickens  good-humouredly  laughs  at 

*  Here  is  really  an  only  average  *  I  forgot  to  say,  if  you  leave  your 
specimen  of  the  letters  as  published  :     *  chamber  twenty  times  a  day,  after 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


*  Rockingham  Castle:  Friday,  thirtieth  of  November,  1849. 
'  Picture  to  yourself,  my  dear  F,  a  large  old  castle,  approached 
'  by  an  ancient  keep,  portcullis,  &c,  &c,  filled  with  company, 
'  waited  on  by  six-and-twenty  servants  ;  the  slops  (and  wine- 

*  glasses)  continually  being  emptied ;  and  my  clothes  (with  myself 
'  in  them)  always  being  carried  off  to  all  sorts  of  places  ;  and  you 
'  will  have  a  faint  idea  of  the  mansion  in  which  I  am  at  present 
'  staying.  I  should  have  written  to  you  yesterday,  but  for 
'  having  had  a  very  busy  day.    Among  the  guests  is  a  Miss  B, 

*  sister  of  the  Honourable  Miss  B  (of  Salem,  Mass.),  whom  we 

*  once  met  at  the  house  of  our  distinguished  literary  countryman 

*  Colonel  Landor.  This  lady  is  renowned  as  an  amateur  actress, 
'  so  last  night  we  got  up  in  the  great  hall  some  scenes  from  the 

*  School  for  Scandal ;  the  scene  with  the  lunatic  on  the  wall,  from 

*  the  Nicholas  Nickleby  of  Major-Gen eral  the  Hon.  C.  Dickens 

*  (Richmond,  Va.)  ;  some  conjuring ;  and  then  finished  off  with 

*  country  dances  ;  of  which  we  had  two  admirably  good  ones, 
'  quite  new  to  me,  though  really  old.    Getting  the  words,  and 

*  making  the  preparations,  occupied  (as  you  may  believe)  the 

*  whole  day ;  and  it  was  three  o'clock  before  I  got  to  bed.  It 

*  was  an  excellent  entertainment,  and  we  were  all  uncommonly 

*  merry.  .  .  I  had  a  very  polite  letter  from  our  enterprising 

*  countryman  Major  Bentley  *  (of  Lexington,  Ky.),  which  I  shall 

*  show  you  when  I  come  home.    We  leave  here  this  afternoon, 

*  and  I  shall  expect  you  according  to  appointment,  at  a  quarter 

*  past  ten  a.m.  to-morrow.  Of  all  the  country-houses  and  estates 
'  I  have  yet  seen  in  England,  I  think  this  is  by  far  the  best. 

*  Everything  undertaken  eventuates  in  a  most  magnificent  hospi- 
'  tality  j  and  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  our  celebrated 


'  using  your  basin,  you  would  find  it 
'  clean,  and  the  pitcher  replenished  on 
'  your  return,  and  that  you  cannot  take 
'  your  clothes  off,  but  they  are  taken 
'  away,  brushed,  folded,  pressed,  and 

*  placed  in  the  bureau  ;  and  at  the 

*  dressing-hour,  before  dinner,  you  find 

*  your  candles  lighted,  your  clothes 
'  laid  out,  your  shoes  cleaned,  and 

*  everything  arranged  for  use ;  .  .  . 


*  the  dress-clothes  brushed  and  folded 
'  in  the  nicest  manner,  and  cold  water, 

*  and  hot  water,  and  clean  napkins  in 

*  the  greatest  abundance.  .  .  Imagine 

*  an  elegant  chamber,  fresh  water  in 

*  basins,  in  goblets,  in  tubs,  and  sheets 

*  of  the  finest  linen  !  * 

*  From  this  time  to  his  death  there 
was  always  friendly  intercourse  with 
his  old  publisher  Mr.  Bentley. 


§  VI.] 


Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


109 


*  fellow  citizen  General  Boxall  (Pittsburg,  Penn.)  is  engaged  in  = 

*  handing  down  to  posterity  the  face  of  the  owner  of  the  mansion  ^^^^^^ 

*  and  of  his  youthful  son  and  daughter.    At  a  future  time  it  will  i^oxaii 

*  be  my  duty  to  report  on  the  turnips,  mangel-wurzel,  ploughs, 

*  and  live  stock  ;  and  for  the  present  I  will  only  say  that  I 

*  regard  it  as  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  the  neighbouring  com- 

*  munity  that  this  patrimony  should  have  fallen  to  my  spirited 

*  and  enlightened  host.    Every  one  has  profited  by  it,  and  the 

*  labouring  people  in  especial  are  thoroughly  well  cared-for  and 

*  looked  after.    To  see  all  the  household,  headed  by  an  enor-  a  family 

scene. 

*  mously  fat  housekeeper,  occupying  the  back  benches  last  night, 

*  laughing  and  applauding  without  any  restraint ;  and  to  see  a 

*  blushing  sleek-headed  footman  produce,  for  the  watch-trick,  a 

*  silver  watch  of  the  most  portentous  dimensions,  amidst  the 

*  rapturous  delight  of  his  brethren  and  sisterhood ;  was  a  very 

*  pleasant  spectacle,  even  to  a  conscientious  republican  like  your- 

*  self  or  me,  who  cannot  but  contemplate  the  parent  country  with 
feelings  of  pride  in  our  own  land,  which  (as  was  well  observed 

'  by  the  Honorable  Elias  Deeze,  of  Hartford,  Conn.)  is  truly  the  * 

*  land  of  the  free.  Best  remembrances  from  Columbia's  daughters. 
'  Ever  thine,  my  dear  F, — H.C  Dickens,  during  the  too  brief 
time  his  excellent  friend  was  spared  to  him,  often  repeated  his 
visits  to  Rockingham,  always  a  surpassing  enjoyment ;  and  in 
the  winter  of  1850  he  accomplished  there,  with  help  of  the 
country  carpenter,  *  a  very  elegant  little  theatre,'  of  which  he  con-  pther^ 
stituted  himself  manager,  and  had  among  his  actors  a  brother  of  ^'J^'''"^' 
the  lady  referred  to  in  his  letter,  '  a  very  good  comic  actor,  but 

*  loose  in  words  ; '  poor  Augustus  Stafford  '  more  than  passable  ; ' 
and  *  a  son  of  Vernon  Smith's,  really  a  capital  low  comedian.'  It 
will  be  one  more  added  to  the  many  examples  I  have  given  of 
his  untiring  energy  both  in  work  and  play,  if  I  mention  the  fact 
that  this  theatre  was  opened  at  Rockingham  for  their  first  repre- 
sentation on  Wednesday  the  15th  of  January;  that  after  the 
performance  there  was  a  country  dance  which  lasted  far  into  the 
morning ;  and  that  on  the  next  evening,  after  a  railway  journey  of 
more  than  120  miles,  he  dined  in  London  with  the  prime  minister, 
Lord  John  RusselL 


no 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  vi. 


London:      A  little  earlier  in  that  winter  we  had  together  taken  his  eldest 
1848-51.  ° 
  son  to  Eton,  and  a  little  later  he  had  a  ereat  sorrow.    *  Poor  dear 

Death  of  '  ^ 

Jeffrey^      *  Jeffrey  ! '  he  wrote  to  me  on  the  29th  January,  1850.    *  I  bought 

*  a  Times  at  the  station  yesterday  morning,  and  was  so  stunned 

*  by  the  announcement,  that  I  felt  it  in  that  wounded  part  of  me, 

*  almost  directly;  and  the  bad  symptoms  (modified)  returned 

*  within  a  few  hours.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  in  extraordinary 
'  good  spirits  within  this  week  or  two — he  was  better,  he  said, 
'  than  he  had  been  for  a  long  time — and  I  sent  him  proof-sheets 

*  of  the  number  only  last  Wednesday.    I  say  nothing  of  his  won- 

*  derful  abilities  and  great  career,  but  he  was  a  most  affectionate 
'  and  devoted  friend  to  me ;  and  though  no  man  could  wish  to 

*  live  and  die  more  happily,  so  old  in  years  and  yet  so  young 
'  in  faculties  and  sympathies,  I  am  very  very  deeply  grieved  for 

*  his  loss.'  He  was  justly  entitled  to  feel  pride  in  being  able  so 
to  word  his  tribute  of  sorrowing  affection.  Jeffrey  had  completed 
with  consummate  success,  if  ever  man  did,  the  work  appointed 
him  in  this  world ;  and  few,  after  a  Hfe  of  such  activities,  have 

'  left  a  memory  so  unstained  and  pure.    But  other  and  sharper 
sorrows  awaited  Dickens. 
Progress  of      The  chicf  occupation  of  the  past  and  present  year,  David 

his  work. 

Copperfield^  will  have  a  section  to  itself,  and  in  this  may  be 
touched  but  lightly.  Once  fairly  in  it,  the  story  bore  him  irre- 
sistibly along ;  certainly  with  less  trouble  to  himself  in  the  com- 
position, beyond  that  ardent  sympathy  with  the  creatures  of  the 
fancy  which  always  made  so  absolutely  real  to  him  their  sufferings 
or  sorrows ;  and  he  was  probably  never  less  harassed  by  interrup- 
tions or  breaks  in  his  invention.  His  principal  hesitation 
The  child-  occurrcd  in  connection  with  the  child-wife  Dora,  who  had  be- 
come  a  great  favourite  as  he  went  on  ;  and  it  was  shortly  after 
her  fate  had  been  decided,  in  the  early  autumn  of  1850,*  but 

*  It  may  be  proper  to  record  the  sor,  Rue  de  Rivoli.  '  There  being  no 
fact  that  he  had  made  a  short  run  to  *  room  in  the  Hotel  Brighton,  we  are 
Paris,  with  Maclise,  at  the  end  of  *  lodged  (in  a  very  good  apartment) 
June,  of  which  sufficient  farther  note  *  here.  The  heat  is  absolutely  fright- 
will  have  been  taken  if  I  print  the  *  ful.  I  never  felt  anything  like  it  in 
subjoined  passages  from  a  letter  to  me  *  Italy.  Sleep  is  next  to  impossible, 
dated  24th  June,  1850,  Hotel  Wind-  *  except  in  the  day,  when  the  room  is 


§  vi.j       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


1 1 1 


before  she  breathed  her  last,  that  a  third  daughter  was  bom  to  London 

him,  to  whom  he  gave  his  dying  little  heroine's  name.    On  these  '- 

and  other  points,  without  forestalling  what  waits  to  be  said  of  the 
composition  of  this  fine  story,  a  few  illustrative  words  from  his 
letters  will  properly  find  a  place  here.  *  Copperfield  half  done,*  he 
wrote  of  the  second  number  on  the  6th  of  June.    *  I  feel,  thank 

*  God,  quite  confident  in  the  story.    I  have  a  move  in  it  ready 

*  for  this  month ;  another  for  next;  and  another  for  the  next' 

*  I  think  it  is  necessary '  (15th  of  November)  '  to  decide  against 

*  the  special  pleader.    Your  reasons  quite  suffice.    I  am  not  sure 

*  but  that  the  banking  house  might  do.    I  will  consider  it  in  a 

*  walk.'    *  Banking  business  impracticable'  (17th  of  November)  Banker  or 

*  on  account  of  the  confinement :  which  would  stop  the  story,  I 

*  foresee.    I  have  taken,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  the  proctor. 

*  I  am  wonderfully   in  harness,  and  nothing  galls  or  frets.' 

*  Copperfield  done '  (20th  of  November)  *  after  two  days'  very 

*  hard  word  indeed ;  and  I  think  a  smashing  number.    His  first 

*  dissipation  I  hope  will  be  found  worthy  of  attention,  as  a  piece 

*  of  grotesque  truth.'    *  I  feel  a  great  hope '  (23rd  of  January, 
1850)  'that  T  shall  be  remembered  by  little  Em'ly,  a  good  many  Little 
'  years  to  come.'    *  I  begin  to  have  my  doubts  of  being  able  to  ^"^ 


*  dark,  and  the  patient  exhausted.  We 
'  purpose  leaving  here  on  Saturday 

*  morning  and  going  to  Rouen,  whence 

*  we  shall  proceed  either  to  Havre  or 

*  Dieppe,  and  so  arrange  our  proceed- 

*  ings  as  to  be  home,  please  God,  on 
'  Tuesday  evening.    We  are  going  to 

*  some  of  the  little  theatres  to-night, 

*  and  on  Wednesday  to  the  Fran^ais, 

*  for  Rachel's  last  performance  before 
'  she  goes  to  London.    There  does 

*  not  seem  to  be  anything  remarkable 
'  in  progress,  in  the  theatrical  way. 

*  Nor  do  I  observe  that  out  of  doors 
'  the  place  is  much  changed,  except 

*  in  respect  of  the  carriages  which  are 

*  certainly  less  numerous.  I  also  think 
the  Sunday  is  even  much  more  a  day 

*  of  business  than  it  used  to  be.  As 

*  we  are  going  into  the  country  with 

*  Regnier  to-morrow,  1  write  this  after 


'  letter  time  and  before  going  out  to 

*  dine  at  the  Trois  Freres,  that  it  may 

*  come  to  you  by  to-morrow's  post. 

*  The  twelve  hours'  journey  here  is 
'  astounding — marvellously  done,  ex- 

*  cept  in  respect  of  the  means  of 

*  refreshment,  which  are  absolutely  A  nm  to 
'  none.    Mac  (extremely  loose  as  to 

*  his  waistcoat,  and  otherwise  careless 
'  in  regard  of  buttons)  is  very  well  and 
'  sends  his  love.    De  Fresne  proposes 

*  a  dinner  with  all  the  notabilities  of 

*  Paris  present,  but  I  won't  stand  it ! 

*  I  really  have  undergone  so  much  fa- 

*  tigue  from  work,  that  I  am  resolved 
'  not  even  to  see  him,  but  to  please 

*  myself.  I  find,  my  child  (as  Horace 
'  Walpole  would  say),  that  I  have 

*  written  you  nothing  here,  but  you 
'  >vill  take  the  will  for  the  deed.' 


112 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London 
1848-51, 


Doubts  as 
to  Dora 
settled. 


Third 

daughter 

bom. 


At  Great 
Malvern. 


*  join  you*  (20th  of  Februaiy),  'for  Copperfield  rxms  high,  and 

*  must  be  done  to-morrow.  But  Fll  do  it  if  possible,  and  strain 
'  every  nerve.    Some  beautiful  comic  love,  I  hope,  in  the  number. 

*  Still  undecided  about  Dora'  (7th  of  May),  'but  must  decide 
'  to-day.'*    *  I  have  been'  (Tuesday,  20th  of  August)  *very  hard 

*  at  work  these  three  days,  and  have  still  Dora  to  kill.    But  with 

*  good  luck,  I  may  do  it  to-morrow.    Obliged  to  go  to  Shep- 

*  herd's-bush  to-day,  and  can  consequently  do  little  this  morning. 

*  Am  eschewing  all  sorts  of  things  that  present  themselves  to  my 

*  fancy — coming  in  such  crowds  ! '    *  Work  in  a  very  decent  state 

*  of  advancement  *  (13th  of  August)  '  domesticity  notwithstanding. 
'  I  hope  I  shall  have  a  splendid  number.    I  feel  the  story  to  its 

*  minutest  point.'  'Mrs.  Micawber  is  still'  (15th  of  August),  'I 
'  regret  to  say,  in  statu  quo.  Ever  yours,  Wilkins  Micawber.' 
The  little  girl  was  born  the  next  day,  the  i6th,  and  received  the 
name  of  Dora  Annie.  The  most  part  of  what  remained  of  the 
year  was  passed  away  from  home. 

The  year  following  did  not  open  with  favourable  omen,  both 
the  child  and  its  mother  having  severe  illness.  The  former 
rallied  however,  and  'Htde  Dora  is  getting  on  bravely,  thank 

*  God !  *  was  his  bulletin  of  the  early  part  of  February.  Soon 
after,  it  was  resolved  to  make  trial  of  Great  Malvern  for  Mrs. 
Dickens  ;  and  lodgings  were  taken  there  in  March,  Dickens  and 
her  sister  accompanying  her,  and  the  children  being  left  in 
London.  *  It  is  a  most  beautiful  place,'  he  wrote  to  me  (15th  of 
March).    '  O  Heaven,  to  meet  the  Cold  Waterers  (as  I  did  this 


*  The  rest  of  the  letter  may  be 
allowed  to  nil  the  comer  of  a  note. 
The  allusions  to  Rogers  and  Landor 
are  by  way  of  reply  to  an  invitation  I 
had  sent  him.    *  I  am  extremely  sorry 

*  to  hear  about  Fox.    Shall  call  to 

*  enquire,  as  I  come  by  to  the  Temple. 

*  And  will  call  on  you  (taking  the 
'  chance  of  finding  you)  on  my  way  to 

*  that  seat  of  Boredom.  I  wrote  my 
'  paper  for  H.  W.  yesterday,  and 
'  have  begun  Copperficld  this  morning. 

*  Still  undecided   about   Dora,  but 

*  MUST  decide  to-day.    La  difficulte 


d'ecrire  I'Anglaise  m'est  extreme- 
ment  ennuyeuse.  Ah,  mon  Dieu  ! 
si  I'on  pourrait  toujours  ecrire  cette 
belle  langue  de  France  1  Monsieur 
Rogere  !  Ah  !  qu'il  est  homme 
d'esprit,  homme  de  genie,  homme 
des  lettres !  Monsieur  Landore ! 
Ah  qu'il  parle  Frangais — pas  par- 
faitement  comme  un  ange— un  pen 
(peut-etre)  comme  un  diable  !  Mais 
il  est  bon  garfon — serieusement,  il 
est  un  de  la  vraie  noblesse  de  la  na- 
ture. Votre  tout  devoue,  Charles, 
A  Monsieur  Monsieur  Fos-tere.' 


§  VI.]        Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 


*  morning  when  I  went  out  for  a  shower-bath)  dashing  down  the  London 

*  hills,  with  severe  expressions  on  their  countenances,  like  men  ■ 


*  doing  matches  and  not  exactly  winning  !    Then,  a  young  lady  Coid 

*  in  a  grey  polka  going  up  the  hills,  regardless  of  legs  j  and 

*  meeting  a  young  gentleman  (a  bad  case,  I  should  say)  with  a 

*  light  black  silk  cap  on  under  his  hat,  and  the  pimples  of  I  don't 

*  know  how  many  douches  under  that.    Likewise  an  old  man 

*  who  ran  over  a  milk-child,  rather  than  stop  ! — with  no  neckcloth, 

*  on  principle ;  and  with   his  mouth  wide  open,  to  catch  the 

*  morning  air.*    He  had  to  return  to  London  after  the  middle  of 
March,  for  business  connected  with  a  charitable  Home  estab- 
lished at  Shepherd's-bush  by  Miss  Coutts  in  the  benevolent  hope  ^^^^  at 
of  rescuing  fallen  women  by  testing  their  fitness  for  emigration,  bJsh!^^'^'^  ^' 
frequently  mentioned  in  his  letters,  and  which  largely  and  regu- 
larly occupied  his  time  for  several  years.     On  this  occasion 

his  stay  was  prolonged  by  the  illness  of  his  father,  whose  health 
had  been  failing  latterly,  and  graver  symptoms  were  now  spoken 
of.  *  I  saw  my  poor  father  twice  yesterday,'  he  wrote  to  me  on 
the  27th,  ^  the  second  time  between  ten  and  eleven  at  night.  In 

*  the  morning  I  thought  him  not  so  well.    At  night,  as  well  as 

*  any  one  in  such  a  situation  could  be.'    Next  day  he  was  so  Father's 
much  better  that  his  son  went  back  to  Malvern  :  but  the  end 
came  suddenly.    We  were  expecting  him  at  Knebworth,  and  I 
supposed  that  some  accident  had  detained  him  in  Malvern ;  but  at 

my  return  this  letter  waited  me.    '  Devonshire-terrace,  Monday, 

*  thirty-first  of  March  185 1. .  .  .  My  poor  father  died  this  morning 

*  at  five  and  twenty  minutes  to  six.    They  had  sent  for  me  to 

*  Malvern,  but  I  passed  John  on  the  railway.  .  .  .  Arrived  at 

*  eleven  last  night,  and  was  in  Keppel-street  at  a  quarter  past 

*  eleven.    He  did  not  know  me,  nor  any  one.    He  began  to 

*  sink  at  about  noon  yesterday,  and  never  rallied  afterwards.  I 

*  remained  there  until  he  died — O  so  quietly.  ...  I  hardly  know 

.         ^  ^  Death  of 

*  what  to  do.    I  am  going  up  to  Highgate  to  get  the  ground.  jj>jiji 

*  Perhaps  you  may  like  to  go,  and  I  should  like  it  if  you  do.  I 

*  will  not  leave  here  before  two  o'clock,  but  I  must  go  down  to 

*  Malvern  again,  at  night.  .  .  Mr.  John  Dickens  was  laid  in 
Highgate  Cemetery  on  the  5th  of  April ;  and  the  stone  placed 

VOL.  II.  1 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vi. 


over  him  by  the  son  who  has  made  his  name  a  famous  one  in 
England,  bore  tribute  to  his  *  zealous,  useful,  cheerful  spirit.' 
What  more  is  to  be  said  of  him  will  be  most  becomingly  said  in 
speaking  of  David  Copperjield.  While  the  book  was  in  course 
of  being  written,  all  that  had  been  best  in  him  came  more  and 
more  vividly  back  to  its  author's  memory;  as  time  wore  on, 
nothing  else  was  remembered ;  and  five  years  before  his  own 
death,  after  using  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me  a  phrase  rather 
out  of  the  common  with  him,  this  was  added :  *  I  find  this  looks 

*  like  my  poor  father,  whom  I  regard  as  a  better  man  the  longer 

*  I  live/ 

He  was  at  this  time  under  promise  to  take  the  chair  at  the 
General  Theatrical  Fund  on  the  14th  of  April.  Great  efforts 
were  made  to  relieve  him  from  the  promise ;  but  such  special 
importance  was  attached  to  his  being  present,  and  the  Fund 
so  sorely  then  required  help,  that,  no  change  of  day  being 
found  possible  for  the  actors  who  desired  to  attend,  he  )delded 
to  the  pressure  put  upon  him ;  of  which  the  result  was  to 
throw  upon  me  a  sad  responsibility.  The  reader  will  under- 
stand why,  even  at  this  distance  of  time,  my  allusion  to  it 
is  brief. 

The  train  from  Malvern  brought  him  up  only  five  minutes  short 
of  the  hour  appointed  for  the  dinner,  and  we  first  met  that  day  at 
the  London  Tavern.  I  never  heard  him  to  greater  advantage 
than  in  the  speech  that  followed.  His  liking  for  this  Fund  was 
the  fact  of  its  not  confining  its  benefits  to  any  special  or  exclusive 
body  of  actors,  but  opening  them  undoubtingly  to  all ;  and  he 
gave  a  description  of  the  kind  of  actor,  going  down  to  the  infinitesi- 
mally  small,  not  omitted  from  such  kind  help,  which  had  a  half- 
pathetic  humour  in  it  that  makes  it  charming  still.  *In  our 
'  Fund,'  he  said,  '  the  word  exclusiveness  is  not  known.  We 
'  include  every  actor,  whether  he  be  Hamlet  or  Benedict :  the 

*  ghost,  the  bandit,  or  the  court  physician ;  or,  in  his  one  person, 

*  the  whole  king's  army.    He  may  do  the  light  business,  or  the 

*  heavy,  or  the  comic,  or  the  eccentric.  He  may  be  the  captain 
'  who  courts  the  young  lady,  whose  uncle  still  unaccountably 

*  persists  in  dressing  himself  in  a  costume  one  hundred  years 


$  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace.  1 1 5 

*  older  than  his  time.    Or  he  may  be  the  young  lady's  brother  London  ; 

*  in  the  white  gloves  and  inexpressibles,  whose  duty  in  the  family  ^- 

*  appears  to  be  to  listen  to  the  female  members  of  it  whenever 

*  they  sing,  and  to  shake  hands  with  everybody  between  all  the 

*  verses.    Or  he  may  be  the  baron  who  gives  the  fete,  and  who 

*  sits  uneasily  on  the  sofa  under  a  canopy  with  the  baroness  while 

*  the  fete  is  going  on.    Or  he  may  be  the  peasant  at  the  fete  who 

*  comes  on  to  the  stage  to  swell  the  drinking  chonis,  and  who, 

*  it  may  be  observed,  always  turns  his  glass  upside  down  before 

*  he  begins  to  drink  out  of  it.    Or  he  may  be  the  clown  who  Jg^Jh^^'*^'^* 

*  takes  away  the  doorstep  of  the  house  where  the  evening  party  is 

*  going  on.    Or  he  may  be  the  gentleman  who  issues  out  of  the 

*  house  on  the  false  alarm,  and  is  precipitated  into  the  area.  Or, 

*  if  an  actress,  she  may  be  the  fairy  who  resides  for  ever  in  a 

*  revolving  star  with  an  occasional  visit  to  a  bower  or  a  palace. 
'  Or  again,  if  an  actor,  he  may  be  the  armed  head  of  the  witch's 
'  cauldron ;  or  even  that  extraordinary  witch,  concerning  whom  I 

*  have  observed  in  country  places,  that  he  is  much  less  like  the 

*  notion  formed  from  the  description  of  Hopkins  than  the  Mal- 

*  colm  or  Donalbain  of  the  previous  scenes.    This  society,  in 

*  short,  says,  "  Be  you  what  you  may,  be  you  actor  or  actress, 

*  "  be  your  path  in  your  profession  never  so  high  or  never  so 

*  "  low,  never  so  haughty  or  never  so  humble,  we  offer  you  the 

*  "  means  of  doing  good  to  yourselves,  and  of  doing  good  to  your 
'  "  brethren." ' 

Half  an  hour  before  he  rose  to  speak  I  had  been  called  out  of 
the  room.    It  was  the  servant  from  Devonshire-terrace  to  tell  me 
his  child  Dora  was  suddenly  dead.    She  had  not  been  strong  gfath  of 
from  her  birth ;  but  there  was  just  at  this  time  no  cause  for  ^"^f^^^^ 
special  fear,  when  unexpected  convulsions  came,  and  the  frail 
little  life  passed  away.    My  decision  had  to  be  formed  at  once  ; 
and  I  satisfied  myself  that  it  would  be  best  to  permit  his  part  of 
the  proceedings  to  close  before  the  truth  was  told  to  him.  But 
as  he  went  on,  after  the  sentences  I  have  quoted,  to  speak  of 
actors  having  to  come  from  scenes  of  sickness,  of  suffering,  aye.  Difficult 
even  of  death  itself,  to  play  their  parts  before  us,  my  part  was 
very  difficult    '  Yet  how  often  is  it  with  all  of  us,'  he  pro- 

I  2 


1 1 6  T^he  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 

London:  cceded  to  say,  and  I  remember  to  this  hour  with  what  anguish 
1848-51. 

— ~  1  listened   to  words  that  had  for  myself  alone,  in  all  the 


Dora's 
grave. 


crowded  room,  their  full  significance :   '  how  often  is  it  with 

*  all  of  us,  that  in  our  several  spheres  we  have  to  do  violence 

*  to  our  feelings,  and  to  hide  our  hearts  in  carrying  on  this 

*  fight  of  life,  if  we  would  bravely  discharge  in  it  our  duties 
'  and  responsibilities.'  In  the  disclosure  that  followed  when 
he  left  the  chair,  Mr.  Lemon,  who  was  present,  assisted  me ; 
and  I  left  this  good  friend  with  him  next  day,  when  I  went 
myself  to  Malvern  and  brought  back  Mrs.  Dickens  and  her 
sister.  The  little  child  lies  in  a  grave  at  Highgate  near  that 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Dickens ;  and  on  the  stone  which  covers 
her  is  now  written  also  her  father's  name,  and  those  of  two  of 
her  brothers. 

One  more  public  discussion  he  took  part  in,  before  quitting 
London  for  the  rest  of  the  summer ;  and  what  he  said  (it  was  a 
meeting,  with  Lord  Carlisle  in  the  chair,  in  aid  of  Sanitary  reform) 
very  pregnantly  illustrates  what  was  remarked  by  me  on  a  former 
page.  He  declared  his  belief  that  neither  education  nor  religion 
could  do  anything  really  useful  in  social  improvement  until  the 
way  had  been  paved  for  their  ministrations  by  cleanHness  and 
decency.  He  spoke  warmly  of  the  services  of  Lord  Ashley  in 
connection  with  ragged  schools,  but  he  put  the  case  of  a  miserable 
child  tempted  into  one  of  those  schools  out  of  the  noisome  places 
in  which  his  life  was  passed,  and  he  asked  what  a  few  hours' 
teaching  could  effect  against  the  ever-renewed  lesson  of  a  whole 
existence.  *  But  give  him,  and  his,  a  glimpse  of  heaven  through 
'  a  little  of  its  light  and  air ;  give  them  water ;  help  them  to  be 
Advocating  '  clean  j  lighten  the  heavy  atmosphere  in  which  their  spirits  flag, 
reform.       <  and  which  makes  them  the  callous  things  they  are ;  take  the 

*  body  of  the  dead  relative  from  the  room  where  the  living 

*  live  with  it,  and  where  such  loathsome  familiarity  deprives 

*  death  itself  of  awe ;  and  then,  but  not  before,  they  will 

*  be  brought  willingly  to  hear  of  Him  whose  thoughts  were 
'  so  much  with  the  wretched,  and  who  had  compassion  for 

*  all  human  sorrow.'  He  closed  by  proposing  Lord  Ashley's 
health  as  having  preferred  the  higher  ambition  of  labouring 


§  VI.]       Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace,  1 1 7 

for  the  poor  to  that  of  pursuing  the  career  open  to  him  in  broad- 

STAIRS  • 

the  service  of  the  State ;  and  as  having  also  had  *  the  courage  ^^si- 

*  on  all  occasions  to  face  the  cant  which  is  the  worst  and  Lord 

Shaftes- 

*  commonest  of  all,  the  cant  about  the  cant  of  philanthropy.'  ^"ry. 
Lord  Shaftesbury  first  dined  with  him  in  the  following  year  at 
Tavistock-house. 

Shortly  after  the  Sanitary  meeting,  came  the  first  Guild  per- 
formances :  and  then  Dickens  left  Devonshire-terjrace,  never  to 

.      .  .     ^  . 

return  to  it    With  intervals  of  absence,  chiefly  at  the  Guild 

representations,  he  stayed  in  his  favourite  Fort-hpuse  by  the  sea 
until  October,  when  he  took  possession  of  Tavistbck-house ;  and 
from  his  letters  may  be  added  a  few  notices  of  this  >d,st  holiday  at 
Broadstairs,  which  he  had  always  afterwards  a  kindly  word  for ; 
and  to  which  he  said  pleasant  adieu  in  the  sketch  of  Our 
Watering-place,  written  shortly  before  he  left.     '  It  is  more 

*  delightful  here'  (ist  of  June)  'than  I  can  express.  Corn 

*  growing,  larks  singing,  garden  full  of  flowers,  fresh  air  on  the 

*  sea. — O  it  is  wonderful !  Why  can't  you  come  down  next 
'  Saturday  (bringing  work)  and  go  back  with  me  on  Wednesday 

*  for  the  Copperfield  banquet  ?    Concerning  which,  of  course,  I  a  Copper. 

*  say  yes  to  Talfourd's  kind  proposal.    Lemon  by  all  means,  "quet! 

*  And — don't  you  think — Browne  ?   Whosoever,  besides,  pleases 

*  Talfourd  will  please  me.'  Great  was  the  success  of  this  banquet. 
The  scene  was  the  Star-and- Garter  at  Richmond ;  Thackeray  and 
Alfred  Tennyson  joined  in  the  celebration ;  and  the  generous 
giver  was  in  his  best  vein.  I  have  rarely  seen  Dickens  happier 
than  he  was  amid  the  sunshine  of  that  day.  Jerrold  and 
Thackeray  returned  to  town  with  us ;  and  a  little  argument 
between  them  about  money  and  its  uses,  led  to  an  avowal  of 
Dickens  about  himself  to  which  I  may  add  the  confirmation  of 
all  our  years  of  intercourse.    *  No  man,'  he  said,  '  attaches  less 

*  importance  to  the  possession  of  money,  or  less  disparagement  to 

*  the  want  of  it,  than  I  do.' 

I  joined  him  for  the  August  regatta  and  stayed  a  pleasant  fort- 
night. His  paper  on  *  Our  Watering-place  '  appeared  while  I  was 
there,  and  great  was  the  local  excitement.    But  now  his  own  rest- 

°  of  a  new 

lessness  with  fancies  for  a  new  book  had  risen  beyond  bounds, 


ii8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  vi. 


Broad- 
stairs  : 
1851. 


The  old 

restless- 
ness. 


Bleak 
House  in 
his  mind. 


and  for  the  time  he  was  eager  to  open  it  in  that  prettiest  quaintest 
bit  of  English  landscape,  Strood  valley,  which  reminded  him 
always  of  a  Swiss  scene.  I  had  not  left  him  many  days  when 
these  lines  followed  me.    *  I  very  nearly  packed  up  a  portmanteau 

*  and  went  away,  the  day  before  yesterday,  into  the  mountains  of 

*  Switzerland,  alone !    Still  the  victim  of  an  intolerable  restless- 

*  ness,  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  I  wrote  to  you  one  of 
'  these  mornings  from  under  Mont  Blanc.    I  sit  down  between 

*  whiles  to  think  of  a  new  story,  and,  as  it  begins  to  grow,  such  a 

*  torment  of  a  desire  to  be  anywhere  but  where  I  am ;  and  to  be 
'  going  I  don't  know  where,  I  don't  know  why ;  takes  hold  of  me, 

*  that  it  is  like  being  driven  away.    If  I  had  had  a  passport,  I 

*  sincerely  t)elieve  I  should  have  gone  to  Switzerland  the  night 

*  before  last.    I  should  have  remembered  our  engagement — say, 

*  at  Paris,  and  have  come  back  for  it ;  but  should  probably 

*  have  left  by  the  next  express  train.'  It  was  not  until  the 
end  of  November,  when  he  had  settled  himself  in  his  new 
London  abode,  that  the  book  was  begun  (and  as  generally 
happened  with  the  more  important  incidents  of  his  life,  though 
always  accidentally,  begun  on  a  Friday) ;  but  precedence  is  due, 
before  anything  more  is  said  of  Bleak  House,  to  what  remains  to 
be  said  of  Copperfield. 

It  was  the  last  book  written  in  Devonshire  Terrace ;  and  on 
the  page  opposite  is  engraved  a  drawing  by  Maclise  of  this  house 
where  so  many  of  Dickens's  masterpieces  were  composed,  done 
on  the  first  anniversary  of  the  day  when  his  daughter  Kate  was 
born. 


§  VI.] 


Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 


IT9 


I20  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


VII. 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 
1850. 

London  :      DiCKENS  nevcr  stood  SO  high  in  reputation  as  at  the  completion 
— —  of  Copperfield.    From  the  first  it  had  surpassed  in  popularity, 
though  not  in  sale,  all  his  previous  books  excepting  Pickwick.  *  You 

*  gratify  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you/  he  wrote  to  Lytton,  *  by 

*  what  you  say  about  Copperfield^  because  I  hope  myself  that  some 

*  heretofore  deficient  qualities  are  there.'  If  the  power  was  not 
greater  than  in  Chuzzlewit^  the  subject  had  more  attractiveness ; 

^CoppTr-  °^   there  was  more  variety  of  incident,  with  a  freer  play  of  character ; 

and  there  was  withal  a  suspicion,  which  though  general  and  vague 
had  sharpened  interest  not  a  little,  that  underneath  the  fiction  lay 
something  of  the  author's  life.  How  much,  was  not  known  by 
the  world  until  he  had  passed  away.  When  engaged  upon  its 
close  he  had  written  thus  (21st  October  1850) :  ^  I  am  within  three 

*  pages  of  the  shore ;  and  am  strangely  divided,  as  usual  in  such 

*  cases,  between  sorrow  and  joy.     Oh,  my  dear  Forster,  if  I 

*  were  to  say  half  of  what  Copperfield  makes  me  feel  to-night, 

*  how  strangely,  even  to  you,  I  should  be  turned  inside  out ! 
'  I  seem  to  be  sending  some  part  of  myself  into  the  Shadowy 
'  World.' 

To  be  acquainted  with  English  literature  is  to  know,  that  into 
its  most  famous  prose  fiction  autobiography  has  entered  largely 
in  disguise,  and  that  the  characters  most  familiar  to  us  in  the 
English  novel  had  originals  in  actual  life.    Smollett  never  wrote  a 
Real  people  story  that  was  not  in  some  degree  a  recollection  of  his  own 

in  novels. 

adventures ;  and  Fielding,  who  put  something  of  his  wife  into  all 
his  heroines,  had  been  as  fortunate  in  finding,  not  TrulHber  only, 
but  Parson  Adams  himself,  among  his  living  experiences.  To 
come  later  down,  there  was  hardly  any  one  ever  known  to  Scott 
of  whom  his  memory  had  not  treasured  up  something  to  give 
minuter  reality  to  the  people  of  his  fancy ;  and  we  know  exactly 
whom  to  look  for  in  Dandie  Dinmont  and  Jonathan  Oldbuck,  in 


§  VII.1 


David  Copperfield. 


I2t 


the  office  of  Alan  Fairford  and  the  sick  room  of  Crystal  Croft-  London: 

^  1850. 

angry.    We  are  to  observe  also  that  it  is  never  anything  complete  ■  

that  is  thus  taken  from  life  by  a  genuine  writer,  but  only  leading  Scott, 
traits,  or  such  as  may  give  greater  finish  ;  that  the  fine  artist  will  and  Field- 
embody  in  his  portraiture  of  one  person  his  experiences  of  fifty ; 
and  that  this  would  have  been  Fielding's  answer  to  TruUiber  if  he 
had  objected  to  the  pigstye,  and  to  Adams  if  he  had  sought  to 
make  a  case  of  scandal  out  of  the  affair  in  Mrs.  Slipslop's  bed- 
room. Such  questioning  befell  Dickens  repeatedly  in  the  course 
of  his  writings,  where  he  freely  followed,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
method  thus  common  to  the  masters  in  his  art ;  but  there  was  an 
instance  of  alleged  wrong  in  the  course  of  Copperfield  where  he 
felt  his  vindication  to  be  hardly  complete,  and  what  he  did  there- 
upon was  characteristic. 

*  I  have  had  the  queerest  adventure  this  morning,*  he  wrote 
(28th  of  December  1849)  on  the  eve  of  his  tenth  number,  *  the 

*  receipt  of  the  enclosed  from  Miss  Moucher  !    It  is  serio-comic, 

*  but  there  is  no  doubt  one  is  wrong  in  being  tempted  to  such  a 

*  use  of  power.'  Thinking  a  grotesque  little  oddity  among  his 
acquaintance  to  be  safe  from  recognition,  he  had  done  what 
Smollett  did  sometimes,  but  never  Fielding,  and  given  way,  in  the 
first  outburst  of  fun  that  had  broken  out  around  the  fancy,  to  the 
temptation  of  copying  too  closely  peculiarities  of  figure  and  face 
amounting  in  effect  to  deformity.  He  was  shocked  at  discovering  Too^dose  ^ 
the  pain  he  had  given,  and  a  copy  is  before  me  of  the  assurances 

by  way  of  reply  which  he  at  once  sent  to  the  complainant.  That 
he  was  grieved  and  surprised  beyond  measure.  That  he  had  not 
intended  her  altogether.  That  all  his  characters,  being  made  up 
out  of  many  people,  were  composite,  and  never  individual.  That 
the  chair  (for  table)  and  other  matters  were  undoubtedly  from 
her,  but  that  other  traits  were  not  hers  at  all ;  and  that  in  Miss 
Moucher's  *  Ain't  I  volatile  '  his  friends  had  quite  correctly  recog- 
nized the  favourite  utterance  of  a  different  person.  That  he  felt  confession 
nevertheless  he  had  done  wrong,  and  would  now  do  anything  ment?'""" 
to  repair  it.  That  he  had  intended  to  employ  the  character  in 
an  unpleasant  way,  but  he  would,  whatever  the  risk  or  incon- 
venience, change  it  all,  so  that  nothing  but  an  agreeable  impression 


122 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  VI. 


London:  should  be  left.    The  reader  will  remember  how  this  was  managed, 

•  and  that  the  thirty-second  chapter  went  far  to  undo  what  the 

twenty-second  had  done. 

A  much  earlier  instance  is  the  only  one  known  to  me  where  a 
character  in  one  of  his  books  intended  to  be  odious  was  copied 
wholly  from  a  living  original.  The  use  of  such  material,  never 
without  danger,  might  have  been  justifiable  here  if  anywhere,  and 
he  had  himself  a  satisfaction  in  always  admitting  the  identity  of 
Mr.  Fang  in  Oliver  Twist  with  Mr.  Laing  of  Hatton-garden. 
But  the  avowal  of  his  purpose  in  that  case,  and  his  mode  of  setting 
about  it,  mark  strongly  a  difference  of  procedure  from  that  which, 
following  great  examples,  he  adopted  in  his  later  books.  An 
allusion  to  a  common  friend  in  one  of  his  letters  of  the  present 
date — '  A  dreadful  thought  occurs  to  me !  how  brilliant  in  a 

*  book  ! ' — expresses  both  the  continued  strength  of  his  temptations 
and  the  dread  he  had  brought  himself  to  feel  of  immediately 
yielding  to  them ;  but  he  had  no  such  misgivings  in  the  days  of 
Oliver  Twist.  Wanting  an  insolent  and  harsh  police-magistrate, 
he  bethought  him  of  an  original  ready  to  his  hand  in  one  of  the 

Earlier       Loudou  officcs ;  and  instead  of  pursuing  his  later  method  of 

and  later  .   ,  i  i          t  • 

methods.  givmg  a  persoual  appearance  that  should  m  some  sort  render 
difficult  the  identification  of  mental  peculiarities,  he  was  only 
eager  to  get  in  the  whole  man  complete  upon  his  page,  figure  and 
face  as  well  as  manners  and  mind. 

He  wrote  accordingly  (from  Doughty-street  on  the  3rd  of  June 
1837)  to  Mr.  Haines,*  a  gentleman  who  then  had  general  super- 
vision over  the  police  reports  for  the  daily  papers.    *  In  my  next 
Mr  LainT    *  numbcr  of  Oliver  Twist  I  must  have  a  magistrate  ;  and,  casting 
fIh^"^'       *  about  for  a  magistrate  whose  harshness  and  insolence  would 

*  render  him  a  fit  subject  to  be  shown  up,  I  have  as  a  necessary 

*  consequence  stumbled  upon   Mr.   Laing  of  Hatton-garden 

*  celebrity.    I  know  the  man's  character  perfectly  well ;  but  as  it 

*  would  be  necessary  to  describe  his  personal  appearance  also,  I 

*  ought  to  have  seen  him,  which  (fortunately  or  unfortunately  as 

*  the  case  may  be)  I  have  never  done.    In  this  dilemma  it 


This  letter  is  now  in  the  possession  of  S.  R.  Goodman  Esq.  of  Brighton. 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperfield. 


123 


*  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  I  might  under  your  auspices  be  London  : 

*  smuggled  into  the  Hatton-garden  office  for  a  few  moments  some  

'  morning.    If  you  can  further  my  object  I  shall  be  really  very 

'  greatly  obliged  to  you.'     The  opportunity  was  found ;  the  ^^5]^^"^^^^. 
magistrate  was  brought  up  before  the  novelist ;  and  shortly  after,  s^rde" 
on  some  fresh  outbreak  of  intolerable  temper,  the  home-secretary 
found  it  an  easy  and  popular  step  to  remove  Mr.  Laing  from  the 
bench. 

This  was  a  comfort  to  everybody,  saving  only  the  principal 
person ;  but  the  instance  was  highly  exceptional,  and  it  rarely 
indeed  happens  that  to  the  individual  objection  natural  in  every 
such  case  some  consideration  should  not  be  paid.  In  the  book 
that  followed  Copperfieldy  characters  appeared  having  resemblances 
in  manner  and  speech  to  distinguished  writers  too  vivid  to  be 
mistaken  by  their  personal  friends.    To  Lawrence  Boythorn,  OHginaisof 

->  ^  •>  '  Boythorn 

under  whom  Landor  figured,  no  objection  was  made  :  but  Harold  and  Skim- 

.  pole. 

Skimpole,  recognizable  for  Leigh  Hunt,  led  to  much  remark  ;  the 
difference  being,  that  ludicrous  traits  were  employed  in  the  first 
to  enrich  without  impairing  an  attractive  person  in  the  tale, 
whereas  to  the  last  was  assigned  a  part  in  the  plot  which  no  fasci- 
nating foibles  or  gaieties  of  speech  could  redeem  from  contempt. 
Though  a  want  of  consideration  was  thus  shown  to  the  friend 
whom  the  character  would  be  likely  to  recall  to  many  readers,  it 
is  nevertheless  very  certain  that  the  intention  of  Dickens  was  not 
at  first,  or  at  any  time,  an  unkind  one.  He  erred  from  thought- 
lessness only.  What  led  him  to  the  subject  at  all,  he  has  himself 
stated.  Hunt's  philosophy  of  moneyed  obligations,  always,  though 
loudly,  half  jocosely  proclaimed,  and  his  ostentatious  wilfulness 
in  the  humouring  of  that  or  any  other  theme  on  which  he  cared 
for  the  time  to  expatiate,*  had  so  often  seemed  to  Dickens  to  be  Yielding  to 

temptattun. 


*  Here  are  two  passages  taken  from 
Hunt's  writing  in  the  Tatler  (a  charm- 
ing little  paper  which  it  was  one  of 
the  first  ventures  of  the  young  firm  of 
Chapman  and  Hall  to  attempt  to 
establish  for  Hunt  in  1830),  to  which 
accident  had  unluckily  attracted 
Dickens's  notice : — *  Supposing  us  to 
be  in  want  of  patronage,  and  in  pos- 


session of  talent  enough  to  make  it 
an  honour  to  notice  us,  we  would 
much  rather  have  some  great  and 
comparatively  private  friend,  rich 
enough  to  assist  us,   and  amiable  Sayings 
enough  to  render  obligation  delight-  ^^"^j.g 
ful,  than  become  the  public  property  Tatler. 
of  any  man,  or  of  any  government. 
.  .  .  .  If  a  divinity  had  given  us  our 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


whimsical  and  attractive,  that,  wanting  an  *  airy  quality '  for  the 
man  he  invented,  this  of  Hunt  occurred  to  him ;  and  '  partly  for 

*  that  reason,  and  partly,  he  has  since  often  grieved  to  think,  for 

*  the  pleasure  it  afforded  to  find  a  delightful  manner  reproducing 
'  itself  under  his  hand,  he  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  too  often 
'  making  the  character  speak  like  his  old  friend."  This  apology 
was  made  *  after  Hunt's  death,  and  mentioned  a  revision  of  the 
first  sketch,  so  as  lo  render  it  less  like,  at  the  suggestion  of  two 
other  friends  of  Hunt.  The  friends  were  Procter  (Barry  Corn- 
wall) and  myself  \  the  feeling  having  been  mine  from  the  first 
that  the  likeness  was  too  like.  Procter  did  not  immediately  think 
so,  but  a  little  reflection  brought  him  to  that  opinion.    *  You  will 

*  see  from  the  enclosed/  Dickens  wrote  (17th  of  March  1852), 

*  that  Procter  is  much  of  my  mind.    I  will  nevertheless  go  through 

*  the  character  again  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  and  soften 

*  down  words  here  and  there.'  But  before  the  day  closed  Procter 
had  again  written  to  him,  and  next  morning  this  was  the  result. 

*  I  have  again  gone  over  every  part  of  it  very  carefully,  and  I 

*  think  I  have  made  it  much  less  like.  I  have  also  changed 
'  Leonard  to  Harold.  I  have  no  right  to  give  Hunt  pain,  and 
'  I  am  so  bent  upon  not  doing  it  that  I  wish  you  would  look 
'  at  all  the  proof  once  more,  and  indicate  any  particular  place 
'  in  which  you  feel  it  particularly  like.  Whereupon  I  will  alter 
'  that  place.* 


'  choice  we  should  have  said — make 

*  us  La  Fontaine,  who  goes  and  lives 

*  twenty  years  with  some  rich  friend, 

*  as  innocent  of  any  harm  in  it  as  a 
'  child,  and  who  writes  what  he  thinks 
'  charming  verses,  sitting  all  day  under 
'  a  tree.'  Such  sayings  will  not  bear 
to  be  deliberately  read  and  thought 
over,  but  any  kind  of  extravagance  or 
oddity  came  from  Hunt's  lips  with  a 
curious  fascination.  There  was  surely 
never  a  man  of  so  sunny  a  nature,  who 
could  draw  so  much  pleasure  from 
common  things,  or  to  whom  books 
were  a  world  so  real,  so  exhaustless, 
so  delightful.  I  was  only  seventeen 
when  I  derived  from  him  the  tastes 


which  have  been  the  solace  of  all  sub- 
sequent years,  and  I  well  remember 
the  last  time  I  saw  him  at  Hammer- 
smith, not  long  before  his  death  in 
1859,  when,  with  his  delicate,  worn, 
but  keenly  intellectual  face,  his  large 
luminous  eyes,  his  thick  shock  of  wiry 
grey  hair,  and  a  little  cape  of  faded 
black  silk  over  his  shoulders,  he  looked 
like  an  old  French  abbe.  He  was 
buoyant  and  pleasant  as  ever ;  and 
was  busy  upon  a  vindication  of  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  from  Cardinal  Wiseman, 
who  had  attacked  them  for  alleged 
sensuous  and  voluptuous  qualities. 

*  In  a  paper  in  All  the  Yeat 
Round. 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperfield. 


125 


Upon  the  whole  the  alterations  were  considerable,  but  the  London: 

radical  wrong  remained.    The  pleasant  sparkling  airy  talk,  which  

could  not  be  mistaken,  identified  with  odious  qualities  a  friend 
only  known  to  the  writer  by  attractive  ones  ;  and  for  this  there 
was  no  excuse.    Perhaps  the  only  person  acquainted  with  the  The  wrong 

not  reme- 

original  who  failed  to  recognize  the  copy,  was  the  original  himself  died, 
(a  common  case)  ;  but  good-natured  friends  in  time  told  Hunt 
everything,  and  painful  explanations  followed,  where  nothing  was 
possible  to  Dickens  but  what  amounted  to  a  friendly  evasion  of 
the  points  really  at  issue.  The  time  for  redress  had  gone.  I  yet 
well  remember  with  what  eager  earnestness,  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  he  strove  to  set  Hunt  up  again  in  his  own  esteem. 

*  Separate  in  your  own  mind,'  he  said  to  him,  '  what  you  see  of 

*  yourself  from  what  other  people  tell  you  that  they  see.    As  it 

*  has  given  you  so  much  pain,  I  take  it  at  its  worst,  and  say  I  am 

*  deeply  sorry,  and  that  I  feel  I  did  wrong  in  doing  it.    I  should 

*  otherwise  have  taken  it  at  its  best,  and  ridden  off  upon  what 

*  I  strongly  feel  to  be  the  truth,  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  Seif-de- 

*  should  have  given  you  pain.  Every  one  in  writing  must  speak 
'  from  points  of  his  experience,  and  so  I  of  mine  with  you :  but 

*  when  I  have  felt  it  was  going  too  close  I  stopped  myself,  and 

*  the  most  blotted  parts  of  my  MS.  are  those  in  which  I  have 

*  been  striving  hard  to  make  the  impression  I  was  writing  from, 

*  unX^t  you.    The  diary-writing  I  took  from  Haydon,  not  from 

*  you.    I  now  first  learn  from  yourself  that  you  ever  set  anything 

*  to  music,  and  I  could  not  have  copied  thai  from  you.  The 

*  character  is  not  you,  for  there  are  traits  in  it  common  to  fifty 

*  thousand  people  besides,  and  I  did  not  fancy  you  would  ever 

*  recognize  it.  Under  similar  disguises  my  own  father  and  mother  Relatives 

^  .  put  into 

*  are  in  my  books,  and  you  might  as  well  see  your  likeness  in  books. 

*  Micawber.'  The  distinction  is  that  the  foibles  of  Mr,  Micawber 
and  of  Mrs.  Nickleby,  however  laughable,  make  neither  of  them 
in  speech  or  character  less  loveable ;  and  that  this  is  not  to  be 
said  of  Skimpole's.  The  kindly  or  unkindly  impression  makes 
all  the  difference  where  liberties  are  taken  with  a  friend ;  and  even 
this  entirely  favourable  condition  will  not  excuse  the  practice  to 
many,  where  near  relatives  are  concerned. 


126 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vi. 


London : 
1850. 


Scott  and 
his  father. 


Scott 
to 

Lockhart. 


Dickens 
and  his 
father. 


Flourishes 
of  speech. 


For  what  fonnerly  was  said  of  the  Micawber  resemblances, 
Dickens  has  been  sharply  criticized ;  and  in  like  manner  it  was 
thought  objectionable  in  Scott  that  for  the  closing  scenes  of 
Crystal  Croftangry  he  should  have  found  the  original  of  his  fretful 
patient  at  the  death-bed  of  his  own  father.  Lockhart,  who  tells 
us  this,  adds  with  a  sad  significance  that  he  himself  lived  to  see 
the  curtain  fall  at  Abbotsford  upon  even  such  another  scene. 
But  to  no  purpose  will  such  objections  still  be  made.  All  great 
novelists  will  continue  to  use  their  experiences  of  nature  and  fact, 
whencesoever  derivable ;  and  a  remark  made  to  Lockhart  by  Scott 
himself  suggests  their  vindication.    *  If  a  man  will  paint  from 

*  nature,  he  will  be  most  likely  to  interest  and  amuse  those  who 

*  are  daily  looking  at  it' 

The  Micawber  offence  otherwise  was  not  grave.  We  have 
seen  in  what  way  Dickens  was  moved  or  inspired  by  the  rough 
lessons  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  groundwork  of  the  character  was 
then  undoubtedly  laid ;  but  the  rhetorical  exuberance  impressed 
itself  upon  him  later,  and  from  this,  as  it  expanded  and  developed 
in  a  thousand  amusing  ways,  the  full-length  figure  took  its  great 
charm.  Better  illustration  of  it  could  not  perhaps  be  given  than 
by  passages  from  letters  of  Dickens,  written  long  before  Micawber 
was  thought  of,  in  which  this  peculiarity  of  his  father  found 
frequent  and  always  agreeable  expression.  Several  such  have 
been  given  in  this  work  from  time  to  time,  and  one  or  two  more 
may  here  be  added.  It  is  proper  to  preface  them  by  saying  that 
no  one  could  know  the  elder  Dickens  without  secretly  liking  him 
the  better  for  these  flourishes  of  speech,  which  adapted  themselves 
so  readily  to  his  gloom  as  well  as  to  his  cheerfulness,  that  it  was 
difficult  not  to  fancy  they  had  helped  him  considerably  in  both, 
and  had  rendered  more  tolerable  to  him,  if  also  more  possible, 
the  shade  and  sunshine  of  his  chequered  life.    *  If  you  should 

*  have  an  opportunity,  pendente  lite,  as  my  father  would  observe — 

*  indeed  did  on  some  memorable  ancient  occasions  when  he 

*  informed  me  that  the  ban-dogs  would  shortly  have  him  at  bay ' 
— Dickens  wrote  in  December  1847.    '  I  ^^ve  a  letter  from  my 

*  father'  (May  1841)  'lamenting  the  fine  weather,  invoking  con- 

*  genial  tempests,  and  informing  me  that  it  will  not  be  possible 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperjield, 


12 


*  for  him  to  stay  more  than  another  year  in  Devonshire,  as  he  London 

*  must  then  proceed  to  Paris  to  consoHdate  Augustus's  French.'  — 

*  There  has  arrived,'  he  writes  from  the  Peschiere  in  September 
1844,  a  characteristic  letter  for  Kate  from  my  father.    He  dates 

*  it  Manchester,  and  says  he  has  reason  to  beHeve  that  he  will  be 

*  in  town  with  the  pheasants,  on  or  about  the  first  of  October. 

*  He  has  been  with  Fanny  in  the  Isle  of  Man  for  nearly  two 
'  months  :  finding  there,  as  he  goes  on  to  observe,  troops  of 
'  friends,  and  every  description  of  continental  luxury  at  a  cheap 

*  rate.*    Describing  in  the  same  year  the  departure  from  Genoa 

of  an  English  physician  and  acquaintance,  he  adds  :  *  We  are  very  Micawber 

*  sorry  to  lose  the  benefit  of  his  advice — or,  as  my  father  would 

*  say,  to  be  deprived,  to  a  certain  extent,  of  the  concomitant 

*  advantages,  whatever  they  may  be,  resulting  from  his  medical 

*  skill,  such  as  it  is,  and  his  professional  attendance,  in  so  far  as 

*  it  may  be  so  considered.'  Thus  also  it  delighted  Dickens  to 
remember  that  it  was  of  one  of  his  connections  his  father  wrote 
a  celebrated  sentence;  *And  I  must  express  my  tendency  to 

*  believe  that  his  longevity  is  (to  say  the  least  of  it)  extremely 

*  problematical : '  and  that  it  was  to  another,  who  had  been 
insisting  somewhat  obtrusively  on  dissenting  and  nonconformist 
superiorities,  he  addressed  words  which  deserve  to  be  no  less 
celebrated ;  '  The  Supreme  Being  must  be  an  entirely  different  jjjjfjf 

*  individual  from  what  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  Him  to  be,  ^»ckens. 

*  if  He  would  care  in  the  least  for  the  society  of  your  relations.' 
There  was  a  laugh  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  this,  no  doubt,  but 
with  it  much  personal  fondness  \  and  the  feeling  of  the  creator  of 
Micawber,  as  he  thus  humoured  and  remembered  the  foibles  of  his 
original,  found  its  counterpart  in  that  of  his  readers  for  the  creation 
itself,  as  its  part  was  played  out  in  the  story.  Nobody  Ukes 
Micawber  less  for  his  follies  ;  and  Dickens  liked  his  father  more, 
the  more  he  recalled  his  whimsical  qualities.    *  The  longer  I  live, 

*  the  better  man  I  think  him,'  he  exclaimed  afterwards.  The 
fact  and  the  fancy  had  united  whatever  was  most  grateful  to  him 
in  both. 

It  is  a  tribute  to  the  generally  healthful  and  manly  tone  of  the 
story  of  Copperfield  that  such  should  be  the  outcome  of  the  ecceu- 


128 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  VI. 


London : 
1850, 


Resem- 
blances 
and  differ- 
ences. 


Skim- 
pole  and 
Micawber. 


Dickens 
and  David. 


tricities  of  this  leading  personage  in  it ;  and  the  superiority  in 
this  respect  of  Micawber  over  Skimpole  is  one  of  the  many 
indications  of  the  inferiority  of  Bleak  House  to  its  i^redecessor. 
With  leading  resemblances  that  make  it  difficult  to  say  which 
character  best  represents  the  principle  or  no  principle  of  impe- 
cuniosity,  there  cannot  be  any  doubt  which  has  the  advantage  in 
moral  and  intellectual  development.  It  is  genuine  humour  against 
personal  satire.  Between  the  worldly  circumstances  of  the  two, 
there  is  nothing  to  choose;  but  as  to  everything  else  it  is  the 
difference  between  shabbiness  and  greatness.  Skimpole's  sunny 
talk  miight  be  expected  to  please  as  much  as  Micawber's  gorgeous 
speech,  the  design  of  both  being  to  take  the  edge  off  poverty. 
But  in  the  one  we  have  no  relief  from  attendant  meanness  or 
distress,  and  we  drop  down  from  the  airiest  fancies  into  sordidness 
and  pain ;  whereas  in  the  other  nothing  pitiful  or  merely  selfish 
ever  touches  us.  At  its  lowest  depth  of  what  is  worst,  we  never 
doubt  that  something  better  must  turn  up  ;  and  of  a  man  who 
sells  his  bedstead  that  he  may  entertain  his  friend,  we  altogether 
refuse  to  think  nothing  but  badly.  This  is  throughout  the  free 
and  cheery  style  of  Copperfield.  The  masterpieces  of  Dickens's 
humour  are  not  in  it;  but  he  has  nowhere  given  such  variety  of 
play  to  his  invention,  and  the  book  is  unapproached  among  his 
writings  for  its  completeness  of  effect  and  uniform  pleasantness 
of  tone. 

What  has  to  be  said  hereafter  of  those  writings  generally,  will 
properly  restrict  what  is  said  here,  as  in  previous  instances, 
mainly  to  personal  illustration.  The  Copperfield  disclosures 
formerly  made  will  for  ever  connect  the  book  with  the  author's 
individual  story;  but  too  much  has  been  assumed,  from  those 
revelations,  of  a  full  identity  of  Dickens  with  his  hero,  and  of  a 
supposed  intention  that  his  own  character  as  well  as  parts  of  his 
career  should  be  expressed  in  the  narrative.  It  is  right  to  warn 
the  reader  as  to  this.  He  can  judge  for  himself  how  far  the 
childish  experiences  are  likely  to  have  given  the  turn  to  Dickens's 
genius ;  whether  their  bitterness  had  so  burnt  into  his  nature,  as, 
in  the  hatred  of  oppression,  the  revolt  against  abuse  of  power, 
and  the  war  with  injustice  under  every  form  displayed  in  his 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperfield. 


129 


earliest  books,  to  have  reproduced  itself  only;  and  to  what  London: 

1850. 

extent  mere  compassion  for  his  own  childhood  may  account  

for    the    strange   fascination    always    exerted    over   him  by 
child-suffering  and  sorrow.     But,   many  as  are   the   resev  c- Seif-por- 

,  failure  not 

blances  in  Copperfield's  adventures  to  portions  of  those  of^'^mpted. 
Dickens,  and  often  as  reflections  occur  to  David  which  no  one 
intimate  with  Dickens  could  fail  to  recognize  as  but  the  repro- 
duction of  his,  it  would  be  the  greatest  mistake  to  imagine  any- 
thing like  a  complete  identity  of  the  fictitious  novelist  with  the 
real  one,  beyond  the  Hungerford  scenes ;  or  to  suppose  that  the 
youth,  who  then  received  his  first  harsh  schooling  in  life,  came 
out  of  it  as  little  harmed  or  hardened  as  David  did.  The  language 
of  the  fiction  reflects  only  faintly  the  narrative  of  the  actual  fact ; 
and  the  man  whose  character  it  helped  to  form  was  expressed 
not  less  faintly  in  the  impulsive  impressionable  youth,  incapable 
of  resisting  the  leading  of  others,  and  only  disciplined  into  self- 
control  by  the  later  griefs  of  his  entrance  into  manhood.*  Here 
was  but  another  proof  how  thoroughly  Dickens  understood  his 
calling,  and  that  to  weave  fact  with  fiction  unskilfully  would  be 
only  to  make  truth  less  true. 

The  character  of  the  hero  of  the  novel  finds  indeed  his  right 
place  in  the  story  he  is  supposed  to  tell,  rather  by  unlikeness  than 
by  likeness  to  Dickens,  even  where  intentional  resemblance  might 

seem  to  be  prominent.    Take  autobiography  as  a  design  to  show  Autobio- 
graphic 

that  any  man's  life  may  be  as  a  mirror  of  existence  to  all  men,  dangers 

avoided. 

and  the  individual  career  becomes  altogether  secondary  to  the 
variety  of  experiences  received  and  rendered  back  in  it.  This 
particular  form  in  imaginative  literature  has  too  often  led  to 
the  indulgence  of  mental  analysis,  metaphysics,  and  senti- 
ment, all  in  excess :  but  Dickens  was  carried  safely  over 
these  allurements  by  a  healthy  judgment  and  sleepless  creative 
fancy;  and  even  the  method  of  his  narrative  is  more  simple 
here  than  it  generally  is  in  his  books.  His  imaginative  growths 
have  less  luxuriance  of  underwood,  and  the  crowds  of  external 
images  always  rising  so  vividly  before  him  are  more  within 
control. 

*  Compare  ante^  i.  24-39,  with  the  eleventh  c-hapter  of  Copperfield^ 
yOL.  II.  K 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


LoNPON :  Consider  Copperfield  thus  in  his  proper  place  in  the  story,  and 
— —  sequence  as  well  as  connection  will  be  given  to  the  varieties  of 
its  childish  adventure.  The  first  warm  nest  of  love  in  which  his 
vain  fond  mother,  and  her  quaint  kind  servant,  cherish  him ;  the 
quick-following  contrast  of  hard  dependence  and  servile  treat- 
ment ;  the  escape  from  that  premature  and  dwarfed  maturity  by 
natural  relapse  into  a  more  perfect  childhood  ;  the  then  leisurely 
growth  of  emotions  and  faculties  into  manhood ;  these  are  com- 
ponent parts  of  a  character  consistently  drawn.  The  sum  of  its 
achievement  is  to  be  a  successful  cultivation  of  letters  ;  and  often 
as  such  imaginary  discipline  has  been  the  theme  of  fiction,  there 
are  not  many  happier  conceptions  of  it.  The  ideal  and  real 
parts  of  the  boy's  nature  receive  development  in  the  proportions 
which  contribute  best  to  the  end  desired  j  the  readiness  for 
impulsive  attachments  that  had  put  him  into  the  leading  of 
others,  has  underneath  it  a  base  of  truthfulness  on  which  at  last 
he  rests  in  safety ;  the  practical  man  is  the  outcome  of  the  fanciful 
Design  of    youth  ;  and  a  more  than  equivalent  for  the  graces  of  his  visionary 

David's  ,  .  .  . 

character,  days,  is  found  in  the  active  sympathies  that  life  has  opened  to 
him.  Many  experiences  have  come  within  its  range,  and  his 
heart  has  had  room  for  all.  Our  interest  in  him  cannot  but  be 
increased  by  knowing  how  much  he  expresses  of  what  the  author 
had  himself  gone  through  ;  but  David  includes  far  less  than  this, 
and  infinitely  more. 

That  the  incidents  arise  easily,  and  to  the  very  end  connect 
themselves  naturally  and  unobtrusively  with  the  characters  of 
which  they  are  a  part,  is  to  be  said  perhaps  more  truly  of  this 
than  of  any  other  of  Dickens's  novels.  There  is  a  profusion  of 
distinct  and  distinguishable  people,  and  a  prodigal  wealth  of 
detail ;  but  unity  of  drift  or  purpose  is  apparent  always,  and  the 

IoveL°^  uniformly  right.    By  the  course  of  the  events  we  learn 

the  value  of  self-denial  and  patience,  quiet  endurance  of  unavoid- 
able ills,  strenuous  effort  against  ills  remediable ;  and  everything 
in  the  fortunes  of  the  actors  warns  us,  to  strengthen  our  generous 
emotions  and  to  guard  the  purities  of  home.  It  is  easy  thus  to 
account  for  the  supreme  popularity  of  Copperfield^  without  the 
addition  th3,t  it  can  hardly  have  had  a  reader,  maa  or  lad,  who 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperfield. 


did  not  discover  that  he  was  something  of  a  Copperfield  himself.  London  : 

Childhood  and  youth  live  again  for  all  of  us  in  its  marvellous  

boy-experiences.  Mr.  Micawber's  presence  must  not  prevent  my 
saying  that  it  does  not  take  the  lead  of  the  other  novels  in 
humorous  creation  :  but  in  the  use  of  humour  to  brinsr  out  Humour 

°  and  senti- 

prominently  the  ludicrous  in  any  object  or  incident  without 

excluding  or  weakening  its  most  enchanting  sentiment,  it  stands 

decidedly  first.    It  is  the  perfection  of  English  mirth.    We  are 

apt  to  resent  the  exhibition  of  too  much  goodness,  but  it  is 

here  so  qualified  by  oddity  as  to  become  not  merely  palatable 

but  attractive ;  and  even  pathos  is  heightened  by  what  in  other 

hands  would  only  make  it  comical.    That  there  are  also  faults  in 

the  book  is  certain,  but  none  that  are  incompatible  with  the 

most  masterly  qualities ;  and  a  book  becomes  everlasting  by  the  ^'°°^* 

fact,  not  that  faults  are  not  in  it,  but  that  genius  nevertheless  is 

there. 

Of  its  method,  and  its  author's  generally,  in  the  delineation  of 
character,  something  will  have  to  be  said  on  a  later  page.  The 
author's  own  favourite  people  in  it,  I  think,  were  the  Peggotty 
group ;  and  perhaps  he  was  not  far  wrong.  It  has  been  their 
fate,  as  with  all  the  leading  figures  of  his  invention,  to  pass  their  The  Peg- 

^  gottys. 

names  into  the  language,  and  become  types ;  and  he  has  no- 
where given  happier  embodiment  to  that  purity  of  homely  good- 
ness, which,  by  the  kindly  and  all-reconcihng  influences  of 
humour,  may  exalt  into  comeliness  and  even  grandeur  the 
clumsiest  forms  of  humanity.  What  has  been  indicated  in  the 
style  of  the  book  as  its  greatest  charm  is  here  felt  most  strongly. 
The  ludicrous  so  helps  the  pathos,  and  the  humour  so  uplifts  and 
refines  the  sentiment,  that  mere  rude  affection  and  simple  man- 
liness in  these  Yarmouth  boatmen,  passed  through  the  fires 
of  unmerited  suft'ering  and  heroic  endurance,  take  forms  half- 
chivalrous  half-sublime.  It  is  one  of  the  cants  of  critical  superio- 
rity to  make  supercilious  mention  of  the  serious  passages  in 
this  great  writer ;  but  the  storm  and  shipwreck  at  the  close  of 
Copperfield^  when  the  body  of  the  seducer  is  flung  dead  upon  the  J^*^,? ^f^f™ 
shore  amid  the  ruins  of  the  home  he  has  wasted  and  by  the  side  ''^^^^^ 
of  the  man  whose  heart  he  has  broken,  the  one  as  unconscious  of 


K  2 


132 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  VI. 


London.'  what  he  had  failed  to  reach  as  the  other  of  what  he  has  perished 

1850.  ... 
 —  to  save,  is  a  description  that  may  compare  with  the  most  impres- 
sive in  the  language.  And  to  those  who,  knowing  Dickens  best, 
know  what  realities  his  books  were  to  him,  the  expression  of  his 
sense  of  suffering  in  composing  such  passages,  will  have  in  it  not 
a  grain  of  pretence  or  affectation.    *  I  have  been  tremendously  at 

*  work  these  two  days '  (i  5th  of  September),  'eight  hours  at  a  stretch 

*  yesterday,  and  six  hours  and  a  half  to-day,  with  the  Ham  and 

*  Steerforth  chapter,  which  has  completely  knocked  me  over — 
'  utterly  defeated  me.' 

There  are  other  people  drawn  into  this  catastrophe  who  are 
among  the  failures  of  natural  delineation  in  the  book.  But 
iviiss         though  Miss  Dartle  is  curiously  unpleasant,  there  are  some 
and^Mrs.     natural  traits  in  her  (which  Dickens's  least  life-like  people  are 
Steerforth.    ^^^^^  without)  j  and  it  was  from  one  of  his  lady  friends,  very 
familiar  to  him  indeed,  he  copied  her  peculiarity  of  never  saying 
anything  outright,  but  hinting  it  merely,  and  making  more  of 
it  that  way.    Of  Mrs.  Steerforth  it  may  also  be  worth  remem- 
bering that  Thackeray  had  something  of  a  fondness  for  her. 
'  I  knew  how  it  would  be  when  I  began,'  says  a  pleasant 
letter  all  about  himself  written  immediately  after  she  appeared 
in  the  story.     *  My  letters  to  my  mother  are  like  this,  but 

*  then  she  likes  'em — like  Mrs.  Steerforth  :  don't  you  like  Mrs. 
'  Steerforth  ? ' 

Turning  to  another  group  there  is  another  elderly  lady  to  be 
liked  without  a  shadow  of  misgiving ;  abrupt,  angular,  extrava- 
gant, but  the  very  soul  of  magnanimity  and  rectitude ;  a  character 
thoroughly  made  out  in  all  its  parts  ;  a  gnarled  and  knotted  piece 
of  female  timber,  sound  to  the  core  ;  a  woman  Captain  Shandy 
would  have  loved  for  her  startling  oddities,  and  who  is  linked  to 
the  gentlest  of  her  sex  by  perfect  womanhood.  Dickens  has  done 
xStwood  i^othing  better,  for  solid ness  and  truth  all  round,  than  Betsey 
Trotwood.  It  is  one  of  her  oddities  to  have  a  fool  for  a  com- 
panion ;  but  this  is  one  of  them  that  has  also  most  pertinence  and 
wisdom.  By  a  line  thrown  out  in  Wilhelm  Meister^  that  the  true 
way  of  treating  the  insane  was,  in  all  respects  possible,  to  act  to 
them  as  if  they  were  sane,  Goethe  anticipated  what  it  took  a  cen- 


§  VII.] 


David  Copperfield. 


133 


tury  to  apply  to  the  most  terrible  disorder  of  humanity  ;  and  what  London  : 

1850. 

Mrs.  Trotwood  does  for  Mr.  Dick  goes  a  step  farther,  by  showing  

how  often  asylums  might  be  dispensed  with,  and  how  large  might 
be  the  number  of  deficient  intellects  manageable  with  patience  in 
their  own  homes.  Characters  hardly  less  distinguishable  for  truth 
as  well  as  oddity  are  the  kind  old  nurse  and  her  husband  the 
carrier,  whose  vicissitudes  alike  of  love  and  of  mortality  are  con- 
densed into  the  three  words  since  become  part  of  universal 
speech,  Barkis  is  willin\    There  is  wholesome  satire  of  much  Truths  in 

oddities. 

utiHty  in  the  conversion  of  the  brutal  schoolmaster  of  the  earlier 
scenes  into  the  tender  Middlesex  magistrate  at  the  close.  Nor 
is  the  humour  anywhere  more  subtle  than  in  the  country 
undertaker,  who  makes  up  in  fullness  of  heart  for  scantness  of 
breath,  and  has  so  Httle  of  the  vampire  propensity  of  the  town 
undertaker  in  Chuzzkwit,  that  he  dares  not  even  inquire  after 
friends  who  are  ill  for  fear  of  unkindly  misconstruction.  The  test 
of  a  master  in  creative  fiction,  according  to  Hazlitt,  is  less  in 
contrasting  characters  that  are  unlike  than  in  distinguishing  those 
that  are  like ;  and  to  many  examples  of  the  art  in  Dickens,  such 
as  the  Shepherd  and  Chadband,  Creakle  and  Squeers,  Charley  Characters 

lilce  yet 

Bates  and  the  Dodger,  the  Guppys  and  the  Wemmicks,  Mr.  unlike. 
Jaggers  and  Mr.  Vholes,  Sampson  Brass  and  Conversation 
Kenge,  Jack  Bunsby,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  Bill  Barley,  the  Per- 
kers  and  Pells,  the  Dodsons  and  Foggs,  Sarah  Gamp  and  Betsy 
Prig,  and  a  host  of  others,  is  to  be  added  the  nicety  of  distinction 
between  those  eminent  furnishers  of  funerals,  Mr.  Mould  and 
Messrs.  Omer  and  Joram.  All  the  mixed  mirth  and  sadness  of 
the  story  are  skilfully  drawn  into  the  handling  of  this  portion  of 
it ;  and,  amid  wooings  and  preparations  for  weddings  and  church- 
ringing  bells  for  baptisms,  the  steadily-going  rat-tat  of  the  hammer 
on  the  coffin  is  heard. 

Of  the  heroines  who  divide  so  equally  between  them  the  im- 
pulsive, easily  swayed,  not  disloyal  but  sorely  distracted  affections 
of  the  hero,  the  spoilt  fooli.shness  and  tenderness  of  the  loving  The  two 

heroines. 

little  child-wife,  Dora,  is  more  attractive  than  the  too  unfailing 
wisdom  and  self-sacrificing  goodness  of  the  angel-wife,  Agnes. 
The  scenes  of  the  courtship  and  housekeeping  are  matchless; 


134 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI. 


loNDON  :  and  the  glimpses  of  Doctors'  Commons,  opening  those  views,  by 
—  Spenlow,  of  man's  vanity  of  expectation  and  inconsistency  of 
conduct  in  neglecting  the  sacred  duty  of  making  a  will,  on  which 
he  largely  moralises  the  day  before  he  dies  intestate,  form  a  back- 
ground highly  appropriate  to  David's  domesticities.  This  was 
among  the  reproductions  of  personal  experience  in  the  book  ;  but 
it  was  a  sadder  knowledge  that  came  with  the  conviction  some 
years  later,  that  David's  contrasts  in  his  earliest  married  life 
between  his  happiness  enjoyed  and  his  happiness  once  antici- 
pated, the  *  vague  unhappy  loss  or  want  of  something '  of  which 
he  so  frequently  complains,  reflected  also  a  personal  expe- 
rience which  had  not  been  supplied  in  fact  so  successfully  as  in 
fiction 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 

CONTINENT  REVISITED. 

1852  1856.         ^T.  40  43. 

I.  Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 
11.  Home  Incidents. 

III.  In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 

IV.  Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 
V.  Residence  in  Paris. 


I. 


BLEAK  HOUSE  AND  HARD  TIMES. 
1852— 1856. 

These  books  were  written  between  185 1  and  1854,  when  for  a  London: 

portion  of  the  time  the  author  was  living  abroad ;  and,  reserving   — — 

to  another  section  the  home  hfe  that  filled  the  same  interval, 
some  account  of  both  novels  will  be  given  here.  ZtU/e  Dorrit, 
though  begun  in  Paris,  was  not  finished  until  some  time  after  the 
Continental  residence  had  closed,  and  belongs  therefore  to  a  later 
division.  David  Copperfield  had  been  written  between  the  opening 
of  1849  and  October  i^5°>  its  publication  covering  that  time; 
and  its  sale,  which  has  since  taken  the  lead  of  all  his  books  but 
Pickwick^  never  then  exceeding  twenty-five  thousand.  But 
though  it  remained  thus  steady  for  the  time,  the  popularity  of 
the  book  added  largely  to  the  sale  of  its  successor.  Bleak  House 
was  begun  in  his  new  abode  of  Tavistock  House  at  the  end  of 
November  1851  ;  was  carried  on,  amid  the  excitements  of  the 
Guild  performances,  through  the  following  year ;  was  finished  at 
Boulogne  in  the  August  of  1853;  and  was  dedicated  to  'his 
*  friends  and  companions  in  the  Guild  of  Literature  and  Art.' 
Hard  Times  was  planned  and  begun  in  the  winter  of  1853,  amid 
the  busy  preparation  of  Christmas  theatricals  for  his  children  to 
be  presently  described ;  was  finished  at  Boulogne  in  the  summer 
of  1854 ;  and  was  dedicated  to  Carlyle. 

The  autobiographical  form  of  Copperfield  was  in  some  respects 
continued  in  Bleak  House  by  means  of  extracts  from  the  personal 
relation  of  its  heroine.  But  the  distinction  between  the  narrative 
of  David  and  the  diary  of  Esther,  like  that  between  Micawber  and  Contrast  of 

^  '  Lsther  and 

Skimpole,  marks  the  superiority  of  the  first  to  its  successor.    To  i^avid. 
represent  a  storyteller  as  giving  the  most  surprising  vividness  to 
manners,  motives,  and  characters  of  which  we  are  to  believe  her, 
all  the  time,  as  artlessly  unconscious,  as  she  is  also  entirely  igno- 


138 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII- 


i^NDON :  rant  of  the  good  qualities  in  herself  she  is  naively  revealing  in  the 

—  story,  was  a  difficult  enterprise,  full  of  hazard  in  any  case,  not 

worth  success,  and  certainly  not  successful.  Ingenuity  is  more 
apparent  than  freshness,  the  invention  is  neither  easy  nor  un- 
strained, and  though  the  old  mai-vellous  power  over  the  real  is 
again  abundantly  manifest,  there  is  some  alloy  of  the  artificial 
Nor  can  this  be  said  of  Esther's  relation  without  some  general 
application  to  the  book  of  which  it  forms  so  large  a  part.  The 
novel  is  nevertheless,  in  the  very  important  particular  of  con- 
struction, perhaps  the  best  thing  done  by  Dickens. 

In  his  later  writings  he  had  been  assiduously  cultivating  this 
essential  of  his  art,  and  here  he  brought  it  very  nearly  to  perfec- 
tion. Of  the  tendency  of  composing  a  story  piecemeal  to  induce 
greater  concern  for  the  part  than  for  the  whole,  he  had  been 
always  conscious ;  but  I  remember  a  remark  also  made  by  him 
to  the  effect  that  to  read  a  story  in  parts  had  no  less  a  ten- 
dency to  prevent  the  reader's  noticing  how  thoroughly  a  work  so 
presented  might  be  calculated  for  perusal  as  a  whole.  Look  back 
Sr?fd-     ^^^"^       ^^^^  ^^^^  P^S^      the  present  novel,  and  not  even 

inrtl"  the  highest  examples  of  this  kind  of  elaborate  care  will  it  be 

found  that  event  leads  more  closely  to  event,  or  that  the 
separate  incidents  have  been  planned  with  a  more  studied  con- 
sideration of  the  bearing  they  are  severally  to  have  on  the  general 
result.  Nothing  is  introduced  at  random,  everything  tends  to 
the  catastrophe,  the  various  lines  of  the  plot  converge  and  fit  to 
its  centre,  and  to  the  larger  interest  all  the  rest  is  irresistibly 
drawn.  The  heart  of  the  story  is  a  Chancery  suit  On  this  the 
plot  hinges  ;  and  on  incidents  connected  with  it,  trivial  or  im- 
portant, the  passion  and  suffering  turn  exclusively.  Chance 
words,  or  the  deeds  of  chance  people,  to  appearance  irrelevant, 
Construe-  are  found  everywhere  influencing  the  course  taken  by  a  train  of 
iiv«  art.  incidents  of  which  the  issue  is  life  or  death,  happiness  or  misery, 
to  men  and  women  perfectly  unknown  to  them,  and  to  whom 
they  are  unknown.  Attorneys  of  all  possible  grades,  law  clerks  of 
every  conceivable  kind,  the  copyist,  the  law  stationer,  the  usurer, 
all  sorts  of  money  lenders,  suitors  of  every  description,  haunters 
of  the  Chancery  court  and  their  victims,  are  for  ever  moving 


Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 


139 


round  about  the  lives  of  the  chief  persons  in  the  tale,  and  drawing  London  : 

185^. 

them  on  insensibly,  but  very  certainly,  to  the  issues  that  await   ^ — 

them.    Even  the  fits  of  the  little  law-stationer's  servant  help  incidents 

^   and  persons 

directly  in  the  chain  of  small  things  that  lead  indirectly  to  Lady  interwoven. 
Dedlock's  death.  One  strong  chain  of  interest  holds  together 
Chesney  Wold  and  its  inmates,  Bleak  House  and  the  Jamdyce 
group.  Chancery  with  its  sorry  and  sordid  neighbourhood.  The 
characters  multiply  as  the  tale  advances,  but  in  each  the  drift  is 
the  same.    '  There's  no  great  odds  betwixt  my  noble  and  learned 

*  brother  and  myself,'  says  the  grotesque  proprietor  of  the  rag 

and  bottle  shop  under  the  wall  of  Lincoln's-inn,  '  they  call  me  Two  Chan- 

■'  eery  shops. 

*  Lord  Chancellor  and  my  shop  Chancery,  and  we  both  of  us 

*  grub  on  in  a  muddle.'  Edax  rerum  the  motto  of  both,  but 
with  a  difference.  Out  of  the  lumber  of  the  shop  emerge  slowly 
some  fragments  of  evidence  by  which  the  chief  actors  in  the  story 
are  sensibly  affected,  and  to  which  Chancery  itself  might  have 
succumbed  if  its  devouring  capacities  had  been  less  complete. 
But  by  the  time  there  is  found  among  the  lumber  the  will  which 
puts  all  to  rights  in  the  Jamdyce  suit,  it  is  found  to  be  too  late  to 
put  anything  to  rights.  The  costs  have  swallowed  up  the  estate, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter. 

What  in  one  sense  is  a  merit  however  may  in  others  be  a 
defect,  and  this  book  has  suffered  by  the  very  completeness 
with  which  its  Chancery  moral  is  worked  out.  The  didactic  in 
Dickens's  earlier  novels  derived  its  strengtli  from  being  merely 
incidental  to  interest  of  a  higher  and  more  permanent  kind,  and 
not  in  a  small  degree  from  the  playful  sportiveness  and  fancy 
that  lighted  up  its  graver  illustrations.  Here  it  is  of  sterner  JJ^Jg^^^ 
stuff,  too  little  relieved,  and  all-pervading.  The  fog  so  marvel-  ^f*"*"- 
lously  painted  in  the  opening  chapter  has  hardly  cleared  away 
when  there  arises,  in  Jamdyce  v.  Jarndyce^  as  bad  an  atmosphere 
to  breathe  in;  and  thenceforward  to  the  end,  clinging  round 
the  people  of  the  story  as  they  come  or  go,  in  dreary  mist 
or  in  heavy  cloud,  it  is  rarely  absent.  Dickens  has  himself 
described  his  purpose  to  have  been  to  dwell  on  the  romantic  side 
of  familiar  things.  But  it  is  the  romance  of  discontent  and 
misery,  with  a  very  restless  dissatisfied  moral,  and  is  too  much 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VII. 


brought  about  by  agencies  disagreeable  and  sordid.  The  Guppys, 
-Weevles,  Snagsbys,  Chadbands,  Krooks,  and  Smallweeds,  even 
the  Kenges,  Vholeses,  and  Tulkinghorns,  are  much  too  real  to  be 
pleasant;  and  the  necessity  becomes  urgent  for  the  reliefs  and 
contrasts  of  a  finer  humanity.  These  last  are  not  wanting ;  yet 
it  must  be  said  that  we  hardly  escape,  even  with  them,  into  the 
old  freedom  and  freshness  of  the  author's  imaginative  worlds, 
and  that  the  too  conscious  unconsciousness  of  Esther  flings 
something  of  a  shade  on  the  radiant  goodness  of  John  Jarndyce 
himself.  Nevertheless  there  are  very  fine  delineations  in  the 
story.  The  crazed  little  Chancery  lunatic,  Miss  Flite;  the  loud- 
voiced  tender-souled  Chancery  victim,  Gridley ;  the  poor  good- 
hearted  youth  Richard,  broken  up  in  life  and  character  by  the 
suspense  of  the  Chancery  suit  on  whose  success  he  is  to  *  begin 
'  the  world,'  believing  himself  to  be  saving  money  when  he  is 
stopped  from  squandering  it,  and  thinking  that  having  saved  it 
he  is  entided  to  fling  it  away ;  trooper  George,  with  the  Bagnets 
and  their  household,  where  the  most  ludicrous  points  are  more 
forcible  for  the  pathetic  touches  underlying  them ;  the  Jellyby 
interior,  and  its  philanthropic  strong-minded  mistress,  placid  and 
smiling  amid  a  household  muddle  outmuddling  Chancery  itself ; 
the  model  of  deportment,  Turveydrop  the  elder,  whose  relations 
to  the  young  people,  whom  he  so  superbly  patronizes  by  being 
dependent  on  them  for  everything,  touch  delightfully  some  subtle 
points  of  truth ;  the  inscrutable  Tulkinghorn,  and  the  immortal 
Bucket ;  all  these,  and  especially  the  last,  have  been  added  by  this 
book  to  the  list  of  people  more  intimately  and  permanently  known 
to  us  than  the  scores  of  actual  familiar  acquaintance  whom  we  see 
around  us  living  and  dying. 

But  how  do  we  know  them  ?  There  are  plenty  to  tell  us  that 
it  is  by  vividness  of  external  observation  rather  than  by  depth  of 
imaginative  insight,  by  tricks  of  manner  and  phrase  rather  than 
by  truth  of  character,  by  manifestation  outwardly  rather  than  by 
what  Hes  behind.  Another  opportunity  will  present  itself  for 
some  remark  on  this  kind  of  criticism,  which  has  always  had  a 
special  pride  in  the  subtlety  of  its  differences  from  what  the 
world  may  have  shown  itself  prone  to  admire.    '  In  my  father's 


§  I.]  Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 


141 


*  library,'  wrote  Landor  to  Southey's  daughter  Edith,  *  was  the  Cri-  London  : 

*  tical  Review  from  its  commencement :  and  it  would  have  taught  

Value  of 

'  me,  if  I  could  not  even  at  a  very  early  age  teach  myself  better,  critical 

■>     °  •>  judgments. 

*  that  Fielding,  Sterne,  and  Goldsmith  were  really  worth  nothing.' 
It  is  a  style  that  will  never  be  without  cultivators,  and  its  frequent 
application  to  Dickens  will  be  shown  hereafter.  But  in  speaking 
of  a  book  in  which  some  want  of  all  the  freshness  of  his  genius 
first  became  apparent,  it  would  be  wrong  to  omit  to  add  that  his 
method  of  handling  a  character  is  as  strongly  impressed  on  the 
better  portions  of  it  as  on  the  best  of  his  writings.  It  is  difficult 
to  say  when  a  peculiarity  becomes  too  grotesque,  or  an  extrava- 
gance too  farcical,  to  be  within  the  limits  of  art,  for  it  is  the 
truth  of  these  as  of  graver  things  that  they  exist  in  the  world  in 
just  the  proportions  and  degree  in  which  genius  can  discover 
them.  But  no  man  had  ever  so  surprising  a  faculty  as  Dickens 
of  becoming  himself  what  he  was  representing;  and  of  entering 
into  mental  phases  and  processes  so  absolutely,  in  conditions  of 
life  the  most  varied,  as  to  reproduce  them  completely  in  dialogue 
without  need  of  an  explanatory  word.    (He  only  departed  from  Mastery  ia 

dialogue. 

this  method  once,  with  a  result  which  will  then  be  pointed  out.) 
In  speaking  on  a  former  page  of  the  impression  of  reality  thus  to 
a  singular  degree  conveyed  by  him,  it  was  remarked  that  where 
characters  so  revealed  themselves  the  author's  part  in  them  was 
done  ;  and  in  the  book  under  notice  there  is  none,  not  excepting 
those  least  attractive  which  apparently  present  only  prominent  or 
salient  qualities,  in  which  it  will  not  be  found  that  the  charac- 
teristic feature  embodied,  or  the  main  idea  personified,  contains  Handling 
as  certainly  also  some  human  truth  universally  applicable.  To  ten  ^^'^'^'^ 
expound  or  discuss  his  creations,  to  lay  them  psychologically 
bare,  to  analyse  their  organisms,  to  subject  to  minute  demonstra- 
tion their  fibrous  and  other  tissues,  was  not  at  all  Dickens's  way. 
His  genius  was  his  fellow  feeling  with  his  race  ;  his  mere  per- 
sonaUty  was  never  the  bound  or  limit  to  his  perceptions,  how- 
ever strongly  sometimes  it  might  colour  them  ;  he  never  stopped 
to  dissect  or  anatomize  his  own  work ;  but  no  man  could  better 
adjust  the  outward  and  visible  oddities  in  a  delineation  to  its 
inner  and  unchangeable  veracities.     The  rough  estimates  wc 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VII. 


form  of  character,  if  we  have  any  truth  of  perception,  are  on  the 
whole  correct :  but  men  touch  and  interfere  with  one  another  by 
the  contact  of  their  extremes,  and  it  may  very  often  become 
necessarily  the  main  business  of  a  novelist  to  display  the  salient 
points,  the  sharp  angles,  or  the  prominences  merely. 

The  pathetic  parts  of  Bleak  House  do  not  live  largely  in  re- 
membrance, but  the  deaths  of  Richard  and  of  Gridley,  the 
wandering  fancies  of  Miss  Flite,  and  the  extremely  touching  way 
in  which  the  gentleman-nature  of  the  pompous  old  baronet, 
Dedlock,  asserts  itself  under  suffering,  belong  to  a  high  order  of 
writing.  There  is  another  most  affecting  example,  taking  the 
lead  of  the  rest,  in  the  poor  street-sweeper  Jo  ;  which  has  made 
perhaps  as  deep  an  impression  as  anything  in  Dickens.  *We 
'  have  been  reading  Bleak  House  aloud,'  the  good  Dean  Ramsay 
wrote  to  me  very  shortly  before  his  death.    *  Surely  it  is  one  of 

*  his  most  powerful  and  successful !    What  a  triumph  is  Jo  ! 

*  Uncultured  nature  is   there  indeed ;  the  intimations  of  true 

*  heartfeeling,  the  glimmerings  of  higher  feeling,  all  are  there  ; 

*  but  everything  still  consistent  and  in  harmony.  Wonderful  is 
'  the  genius  that  can  show  all  this,  yet  keep  it  only  and  really  part 
'  of  the  character  itself,  low  or  common  as  it  may  be,  and  use  no 

*  morbid  or  fictitious  colouring.  To  my  mind,  nothing  in  the 
'  field  of  fiction  is  to  be  found  in  English  literature  surpassing  the 
'  death  of  Jo  ! '  What  occurs  at  and  after  the  inquest  is  as  worth 
remembering.  Jo's  evidence  is  rejected  because  he  cannot  exactly 
say  what  will  be  done  to  him  after  he  is  dead  if  he  should  tell 
a  lie  ;  *  but  he  manages  to  say  afterwards  very  exactly  what  the 


*  '  O  !  Here's  the  boy,  gentlemen  ! 

*  Here  he  is,  very  muddy,  very  hoarse, 
'  very  ragged.   Now,  boy  ! — But  stop 

*  a  minute.    Caution.    This  boy  must 

*  be  put  through  a  few  preliminary 
'  paces.  Name,  Jo.  Nothing  else  that 
'  he  knows  on.  Don't  know  that 
'  everybody  has  two  names.  Never 
'  heerd  of  sich  a  think.    Don't  know 

*  that  Jo  is  short  for  a  longer  name. 
'  Thinks  it  long  enough  for  him.  He 
'  don't  find  no  fault  with  it.    Spell  it  ? 

*  No.    /^e  can't  spell  it.    No  father, 


'  no  mother,  no  friends.    Never  been 

*  to  school.    What's  home  ?  Knows 

*  a  broom's  a  broom,  and  knows  it's 
'  wicked  to  tell  a  lie.  Don't  recollect 
'  who  told  him  about  the  broom,  or 

*  about  the  lie,  but  knows  both.  Can't 
'  exactly  say  what'll  be  done  to  him 

*  arter  he's  dead  if  he  tells  a  lie  to  the 

*  gentleman  here,  but  believes  it'll  be 

*  something  wery  bad  to  punish  him, 

*  and  serve  him  right — and  so  he'll 
'tell  the  truth.      "This  won't  do, 

*  *' gentlemen,"  says  the  coroner,  with 


§  I.]  Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 


143 


deceased  while  he  Hved  did  to  him.     That  one  cold  winter  London: 

night,  when  he  was  shivering  in  a  doonvay  near  his  crossing,  a  

man  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  came  back,  and,  having  ques- 
tioned him  and  found  he  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world,  said 
Neither  have  I.  Not  one  ! '  and  gave  him  the  price  of  a  supper 
and  a  night's  lodging.  That  the  man  had  often  spoken  to  him  what  jo 
since,  and  asked  him  if  he  slept  of  a  night,  and  how  he  bore  cold  very 
and  hunger,  or  if  he  ever  wished  to  die  ;  and  would  say  in  passing 
'  I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo '  when  he  had  no  money,  but 
when  he  had  any  would  always  give  some.  '  He  wos  wery  good 
'  to  me,'  says  the  boy,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  wretched  sleeve. 

*  Wen  I  see  him  a-layin'  so  stritched  out  just  now,  I  wished  he 

*  could  have  heerd  me  tell  him  so.    He  wos  werry  good  to  me, 

*  he  wos  !'  The  inquest  over,  the  body  is  flung  into  a  pestiferous 
churchyard  in  the  next  street,  houses  overlooking  it  on  every 
side,  and  a  reeking  little  tunnel  of  a  court  giving  access  to  its  iron 
gate.    *  With  the  night,  comes  a  slouching  figure  through  the 

*  tunnel-court,  to  the  outside  of  the  iron  gate.    It  holds  the  gate 

*  with  its  hands,  and  looks  in  within  the  bars  ;  stands  looking  in, 
'  for  a  little  while.    It  then,  with  an  old  broom  it  carries,  softly 

*  sweeps  the  step,  and  makes  the  archway  clean.  It  does  so, 
'  very  busily,  and  trimly ;  looks  in  again,  a  little  while  ;  and  so 

*  departs.'  These  are  among  the  things  in  Dickens  that  cannot 
be  forgotten ;  and  if  Bleak  House  had  many  more  faults  than  have 
been  found  in  it,  such  salt  and  savour  as  this  might  freshen  it  for 
some  generations. 

The  first  intention  was  to  have  made  Jo  more  prominent  in  the 
story,  and  its  earliest  title  was  taken  from  the  tumbling  tenements 
in  Chancery,  *  Tom-all-Alone's,'  where  he  finds  his  wretched 
habitation  ;  but  this  was  abandoned.  On  the  other  hand,  Dickens 
was  encouraged  and  strengthened  in  his  design  of  assailing 
Chancery  abuses  and  delays  by  receiving,  a  few  days  after  the  originals  of 
appearance  of  his  first  number,  a  striking  pamphlet  on  the 

*  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head.  ..  .  'aside;  to  the  great  edification  of 
'  "  Ca7iH  exactly  say  won't  do,  you  *  the  audience  ; — especially  of  Little 

*  "know,  .  .  It's  terrible  depravity.  'Swills,  the  Comic  Vocalist.' 
•♦'^ut  the  boy  aside."     Boy  put 


144 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vii. 


London:  subject  Containing  details  so  apposite  that  he  took  from  them, 
1853. 

■  without  change  m  any  material  pomt,  the  memorable  case  related 

in  his  fifteenth  chapter.  Any  one  who  examines  the  tract  *  will 
see  how  exactly  true  is  the  reference  to  it  made  by  Dickens  in  his 
preface.    *  The  case  of  Gridley  is  in  no  essential  altered  from  one 

*  of  actual  occurrence,  made  public  by  a  disinterested  person  who 

*  was  professionally  acquainted  with  the  whole  of  the  monstrous 
o?Gridiey's  '  ^rong  from  beginning  to  end.'    The  suit,  of  which  all  par- 

ticulars  are  given,  affected  a  single  farm,  in  value  not  more  than 
;£"i2oo,  but  all  that  its  owner  possessed  in  the  world,  against 
which  a  bill  had  been  filed  for  a  ;£^3oo  legacy  left  in  the  will 
bequeathing  the  farm.  In  reality  there  was  only  one  defendant, 
but  in  the  bill,  by  the  rule  of  the  Court,  there  were  seventeen ; 
and,  after  two  years  had  been  occupied  over  the  seventeen 
answers,  everything  had  to  begin  over  again  because  an  eighteenth 
had  been  accidentally  omitted.  *  What  a  mockery  of  justice  this 
'  is,'  says  Mr.  Challinor,  *  the  facts  speak  for  themselves,  and  I 
'  can  personally  vouch  for  their  accuracy.    The  costs  already 

*  incurred  in  reference  to  this  £,z^o  legacy  are  not  less  than  from 

*  £^00  to  ;£"9oo,  and  the  parties  are  no  forwarder.   Already  near 

*  five  years  have  passed  by,  and  the  plaintiff  would  be  glad  to 

*  give  up  his  chance  of  the  legacy  if  he  could  escape  from  his 

*  liability  to  costs,  while  the  defendants  who  own  the  little  farm 
'  left  by  the  testator,  have  scarce  any  other  prospect  before  them 

*  than  ruin.' 

*  I  wish  you  would  look,'  Dickens  wrote  on  the  20th  of 
January  1854,  'at  the  enclosed  titles  for  the  Household  Words 

*  story,  between  this  and  two  o'clock  or  so,  when  I  will  call.    It  is 

*  my  usual  day,  you  observe,  on  which  I  have  jotted  them  down — 

*  Friday !    It  seems  to  me  that  there  are  three  very  good  ones 
Titles  for  a   '  among  them.    I  should  like  to  know  whether  you  hit  upon  the 

new  story.  .      ^       ,  ,        i  •  a  -.• 

'  same.     On  the  paper  enclosed  was  written :  i.  According  to 

*  By  W.  Challinor  Esq.  of  Leek  in  iith  of  March  1852.    On  the  first  of 
Staffordshire,  by  whom  it  has  been  that  month  the  first  number  of  Bleak 
obligingly  sent  to  me,  with  a  copy  of  House  had  appeared,  but  two  nua 
Dickens's  letter   acknowledging  the  hers  of  it  were  then  already  written, 
receipt  of  it  from  the  author  on  th^ 


Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 


H5 


Cocker.  2.  Prove  it.  3.  Stubborn  Things.  4.  Mr.  Gradgrind's  London 
Facts.  5.  The  Grindstone.  6.  Hard  Times.  7.  Two  and  Two 
are  Four.  8.  Something  Tangible.  9.  Our  Hard-headed  Friend. 
10.  Rust  and  Dust  11.  Simple  Arithmetic.  12.  A  Matter  of 
Calculation.  13.  A  Mere  Question  of  Figures.  14.  The  Grad- 
grind  Philosophy.*  The  three  selected  by  me  were  2,  6,  and 
II  :  the  three  that  were  his  own  favourites  were  6,  13,  and  14  ; 
and  as  6  had  been  chosen  by  both,  that  title  was  taken. 

It  was  the  first  story  written  by  him  for  his  weekly  periodical ; 
and  in  the  course  of  it  the  old  troubles  of  the  Clock  came  back,  i- 135- 
with  the  difference  that  the  greater  brevity  of  the  weekly  portions 
made  it  easier  to  write  them  up  to  time,  but  much  more  difficult 
to  get  sufficient  interest  into  each.  *  The  difficulty  of  the  space,' 
he  wrote  after  a  few  weeks'  trial,  *  is  crushing.    Nobody  can  Difficulties 

*  have  an  idea  of  it  who  has  not  had  an  experience  of  patient  pubTui-^^ 

*  fiction-writing  with  some  elbow-room  always,  and  open  places  ^'°°* 

*  in  perspective.    In  this  form,  with  any  kind  of  regard  to  the 

*  current  number,  there  is  absolutely  no  such  thing.'  He  went 
on,  however;  and,  of  the  two  designs  he  started  with,  accom- 
plished one  very  perfectly  and  the  other  at  least  partially.  He 
more  than  doubled  the  circulation  of  his  journal ;  and  he  wrote 
a  story  which,  though  not  among  his  best,  contains  things  as 
characteristic  as  any  he  has  written.  I  may  not  go  as  far  as 
Mr.  Ruskin  in  giving  it  a  high  place ;  but  to  anything  faUing  from 
that  writer,  however  one  may  differ  from  it,  great  respect  is  due, 
and  every  word  here  said  of  Dickens's  intention  is  in  the  most 
strict  sense  just.    *  The  essential  value  and  truth  of  Dickens's 

*  writings,'  he  says,t  '  have  been  unwisely  lost  sight  of  by  many 
'  thoughtful  persons,  merely  because  he  presents  his  truth  with 
'  some  colour  of  caricature.  Unwisely,  because  Dickens's 
'  caricature,  though  often  gross,  is-  never  mistaken.  Allow- 

*  ing  for  his  manner  of  telling  them,  the  things  he  tells  us  are 

*  always  true.     I  wish  that  he  could  think  it  right  to  limit 

*  his  brilliant   exaggeration   to  works  written  only  for  pubHc 

*  To  show  the  pains  he  took  in  such  Heads  and  Soft  Hearts;  4.  Heads 

matters  I  will  give  other  titles  also  and  Tales  ;  5.  Black  and  White, 

thought  of  for  this  tale.    i.  Fact;  2.  t  Unto  this  End:  note  to  First 

Hard-headed  Gradgrind  ;    3.    Hard  Essay,  14- 15. 

VOL.  11.  L 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vil. 


London 
1854. 


*  amusement ;  and  when  he  takes  up  a  subject  of  high  national 
'  importance,  such  as  that  which  he  handled  in  Hard  Times^ 

*  that  he  would  use  severer  and  more  accurate  analysis.   The  use- 

*  fulness  of  that  work  (to  my  mind,  in  several  respects,  the  greatest 

*  he  has  written)  is  with  many  persons  seriously  diminished, 
'  because  Mr.  Bounderby  is  a  dramatic  monster  instead  of  a 

^n'H^ard^^  *  charactcristic  example  of  a  worldly  master ;  and  Stephen  Black- 
Tifnes.       i  pool  a  dramatic  perfection,  instead  of  a  characteristic  example 
'  of  an  honest  workman.    But  let  us  not  lose  the  use  of  Dickens's 

*  wit  and  insight,  because  he  chooses  to  speak  in  a  circle  of  stage 

*  fire.    He  is  entirely  right  in  his  main  drift  and  purpose  in  every 

*  book  he  has  written ;  and  all  of  them,  but  especially  Ifard 

*  Times,  should  be  studied  with  close  and  earnest  care  by  persons 
'  interested  in  social  questions.  They  will  find  much  that  is 
'  partial,  and,  because ,  partial,  apparently  unjust ;  but  if  they 

*  examine  all  the  evidence  on  the  other  side,  which  Dickens 

*  seems  to  overlook,  it  will  appear,  after  all  their  trouble,  that  his 
'  view  was  the  finally  right  one,  grossly  and  sharply  told.'  *  The 
best  points  in  it,  out  of  the  circle  of  stage  fire  (an  expression  of 
wider  application  to  this  part  of  Dickens's  life  than  its  inventor 
supposed  it  to  be),  were  some  sketches  among  the  riding-circus 
people  and  the  Bounderby  household ;  but  it  is  a  wise  hint  of 
Mr.  Ruskin's  that  there  may  be,  in  the  drift  of  a  story,  truths  of 
sufficient  importance  to  set  against  defects  of  workmanship ;  and 


Exagge- 
rated re- 
buke of  ex- 
aggeration. 


*  It  is  curious  that  with  as  strong  a 
view  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
with  an  equally  mistaken  exaltation 
above  the  writer's  ordinary  level,  of  a 
book  which  on  the  whole  was  un- 
doubtedly below  it,  Mr.  Taine  speaks 
of  Hard  Times  2.%  that  one  of  Dickens's 
romances  which  is  a  summary  of  all  the 
rest :  exalting  instinct  above  reason, 
and  the  intuitions  of  the  heart  above 
practical  knowledge ;  attacking  all 
education  based  on  statistic  figures  and 
facts ;  heaping  sorrow  and  ridicule  on 
the  practical  mercantile  people  ;  fight- 
ing against  the  pride,  hardness,  and 
selfishness  of  the  merchant  and  noble  ; 
cursing  the  manufacturing  towns  for 


imprisoning  bodies  in  smoke  and  mud, 
and  souls  in  falsehood  and  factitious- 
ness  ; — while  it  contrasts,  with  that 
satire  of  social  oppression,  lofty  eulogy 
of  the  oppressed  ;  and  searches  out 
poor  workmen,  jugglers,  foundlings, 
and  circus  people,  for  types  of  good 
sense,  sweetness  of  disposition,  gene- 
rosity, delicacy,  and  courage,  to  per- 
petual confusion  of  the  pretended 
knowledge,  pretended  happiness,  pre- 
tended virtue,  of  the  rich  and  powerful 
who  trample  upon  them  !  This  is  a 
fair  specimen  of  the  exaggerations 
with  which  exaggeration  is  rebuked, 
in  Mr.  Taine's  and  much  similar 
criticism. 


§  I.]  Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times. 


147 


here  they  challenged  wide  attention.    You  cannot  train  any  one  London  : 

1854. 

properly,  unless  you  cultivate  the  fancy,  and  allow  fair  scope  to  —  — - 
the  affections.     You  cannot  govern  men  on  a  principle  of  forced, 
averages ;  and  to  buy  in  the  cheapest  and  sell  in  the  dearest 
market  is  not  the  summum  bonum  of  life.    You  cannot  treat  the 
working  man  fairly  unless,  in  dealing  with  his  wrongs  and  his 
delusions,  you  take  equally  into  account  the  simplicity  and 
tenacity  of  his  nature,  arising  partly  from  limited  knowledge,  but 
more  from  honesty  and  singleness  of  intention.    Fiction  cannot 
prove  a  case,  but  it  can  express  forcibly  a  righteous  sentiment ;  Yc^i,^^ 
and  this  is  here  done  unsparingly  upon  matters  of  universal  con- 
cern.  The  book  was  finished  at  Boulogne  in  the  middle  of  July,* 
and  is  inscribed  to  Carlyle. 

An  American  admirer  accounted  for  the  vivacity  of  the  circus- 
scenes  by  declaring  that  Dickens  had  '  arranged  with  the  master 
'  of  Astley's  Circus  to  spend  many  hours  behind  the  scenes  with  Horsc- 

*  the  riders  and  among  the  horses  ; '  a  thing  just  as  likely  as  that  scenes, 
he  went  into  training  as  a  stroller  to  qualify  for  Mr.  Crummies  in 
Nickleby.     Such  successes  belonged  to  the  experiences  of  his 
youth ;  he  had  nothing  to  add  to  what  his  marvellous  observation 

had  made  familiar  from  almost  childish  days ;  and  the  glimpses 
we  get  of  them  in  the  Sketches  by  Boz  are  in  these  points  as  perfect 
as  anything  his  later  experience  could  supply.  There  was  one  thing 
nevertheless  which  the  choice  of  his  subject  made  him  anxious  to 
verify  while  Hard  Times  was  in  hand ;  and  this  was  a  strike  in  a 
manufacturing  town.  He  had  gone  to  Preston  to  see  one  at  the 
end  of  January,  and  was  somewhat  disappointed.  *  I  am  afraid 
'  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  much  here.    Except  the  crowds  at  the 

*  street-comers  reading  the  placards  pro  and  con  ;  and  the  cold 

*  Here  is  a  note  at  the  close.  *  Wednesday  night  .  .  I  have  been 

*  Tavistock  House.    Look  at  that !  *  looking  forward  through  so  many 

*  Boulogne,  of  course.  Friday,  14th  *  weeks  and  sides  of  paper  to  this 
'of  July,  1854.  I  am  three  parts  'Stephen  business,  that  now  —  as 
'  mad,  and  the  fourth  delirious,  with  *  usual — it  being  over,  I  feel  as  if  no- 

*  perpetual  rushing  at  Hard  Times.    I  *  thing  in  the  world,  in  the  way  of 

*  have  done  what  I  hope  is  a  good  *  intense  and  violent  rushing  hither 
'  thing  with  Stephen,  taking  his  story  *  and  thither,  could  quite  restore  my 
'  as  a  wnole  ;  and  hope  to  be  over  in  *  balance.' 

*  town  with  the  end  of  the  book  on 


Prf.ston. 


148 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


^'^1854°'* '  *  a.bsence  of  smoke  from  the  mill-chimneys ;  there  is  very  little  in 
■  *  the  streets  to  make  the  town  remarkable.    I  am  told  that  the 
Manufac-     *  people  "  sit  at  home  and  mope."  The  delegates  with  the  money 

turing  town 

on  strike.     '  from  the  neighbouring  places  come  m  to-day  to  report  the 

*  amounts  they  bring ;  and  to-morrow  the  people  are  paid.  When 

*  I  have  seen  both  these  ceremonies,  I  shall  return.    It  is  a  nasty 

*  place  (I  thought  it  was  a  model  town) ;  and  I  am  in  the  Bull 

*  Hotel,  before  which  some  time  ago  the  people  assembled  sup- 
'  posing  the  masters  to  be  here,  and  on  demanding  to  have  them 
'  out  were  remonstrated  with  by  the  landlady  in  person.  I  saw 
'  the  account  in  an  Italian  paper,  in  which  it  was  stated  that 
'  "  the  populace  then  environed  the  Palazzo  Bull,  until  the 
'  "padrona  of  the  Palazzo  heroically  appeared  at  one  of  the 

*  "  upper  windows  and  addressed  them  !  "    One  can  hardly  con- 

*  ceive  anything  less  likely  to  be  represented  to  an  Italian  mind 

*  by  this  description,  than  the  old,  grubby,  smoky,  mean,  intensely 
'  formal  red  brick  house  with  a  narrow  gateway  and  a  dingy  yard, 
'  to  which  it  applies.  At  the  theatre  last  night  I  saw  Hamlet^  and 
'  should  have  done  better  to  "  sit  at  home  and  mope  "  like  the 

*  idle  workmen.  In  the  last  scene,  Laertes  on  being  asked  how  it 
'  was  with  him  replied  (verbatim)  "  Why,  like  a  woodcock — on 

*  "  account  of  my  treachery."  ' 


II. 

HOME  INCIDENTS. 

1853— 1854— 1855. 

London  :      The  first  number  of  Bleak  House  had  appeared  in  March  1852,* 
and  its  sale  was  mentioned  in  the  same  letter  from  Tavistock 

Proposed         *  I  subjoin  the  dozen  titles  succes-  4.  '  The  East  Wind  ; '  5.  *  Tom-all- 

titles.  sively  proposed  for  Bleak  House.    I,  '  Alone's.      The    Ruined  [House, 

*  Tom  -  all  -  Alone's.  The  Ruined  '  Building,  Factory,  Mill]  that  got 
'  House;'  2.  '  Tom-all-Alone's.  The  'into  Chancery  and  never  got  out  ;' 

*  Solitary  House  that  was  always  shut  6.  *  Tom-all-Alone's.  The  Solitary 
'  up     3-  'Bleak  House  Academy  ; '  *  House  where  the  Grass  Grew  7. 


§11.] 


Home  Incidents. 


149 


House  (7th  of  March)  which  told  of  his  troubles  in  the  tale  at  its  London: 

outset,  and  of  other  anxieties  incident  to  the  common  lot  and  

inseparable  equally  from  its  joys  and  sorrows,  through  which  his  life 

was  passing  at  the  time.    *  My  Highgate  journey  yesterday  was  a  H^ghgate 

*  sad  one.    Sad  to  think  how  all  journeys  tend  that  way.    I  went  "^-s- 

*  up  to  the  cemetery  to  look  for  a  piece  of  ground.  In  no  hope 
'  of  a  Government  bill,*  and  in  a  foolish  dislike  to  leaving  the  little 

*  child  shut  up  in  a  vault  there,  I  think  of  pitching  a  tent  under 

*  the  sky.  .  .  Nothing  has  taken  place  here  :  but  I  believe,  every 

*  hour,  that  it  must  next  hour.    Wild  ideas  are  upon  me  of  going 

*  to  Paris — Rouen — Switzerland — somewhere — and  writing  the 

*  remaining  two- thirds  of  the  next  No.  aloft  in  some  queer  inn 
'room.    I  have  been  hanging  over  it,  and  have  got  restless, 

'  Want  a  change  I  think.    Stupid.    We  were  at  30,000  when  I  Sale  oi  his 

°  ^  novel. 

*  last  heard.  .  .  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  after  all  kinds  of  evasions, 

*  I  am  obliged  to  dine  at  Lansdowne  House  to-morrow.  But 

*  maybe  the  affair  will  come  off  to-night  and  give  me  an  excuse  ! 

*  I  enclose  proofs  of  No.  2.    Browne  has  done  Skimpole,  and 

*  helped  to  make  him  singularly  unlike  the  great  original.  Look 

*  it  over,  and  say  what  occurs  to  you.  .  .  Don't  you  think  Mrs. 

*  Gaskell  charming  ?  With  one  ill-considered  thing  that  looks  like 
'  a  want  of  natural  perception,  I  think  it  masterly.'  His  last 
allusion  is  to  the  story  by  a  delightful  writer  then  appearing  in 
Household  Words  ;  and  of  the  others  it  only  needs  to  say  that  the 
family  affair  which  might  have  excused  his  absence  at  the  Lans- 
downe dinner  did  not  come  off  until  four  days  later.    On  the 

13th  of  March  his  last  child  was  born;  and  the  boy,  his  seventh  Lastchiu 

.    .        .  born. 

son,  bears  his  godfather's  distmguished  name,  Edward  Bulwer 
Lytton. 

'  Tom  -  all  -  Alone's.     The  Solitary  *  and  the  East  Wind.  How  they  both 

*  House  that  was  always  shut  up  and  *  g:ot  into  Chancery  and  never  got 

*  never  Lighted;'  8.  'Tom-all- Alone's.  *  out ;'  12.  '  Bleak  House.' 

*  The  Ruined   Mill,   that  got  into  *  He  was  greatly  interested  in  the 

*  Chancery  and  never  got  out ; '   9.  movement  for  closing  town  and  city 

*  Tom  -  all  -  Alone's.  The  Solitary  graves  (see  the  close  of  the  iith  chap- 
'  House  where  the  Wind  howled  ;'  ter  of  Bleak  House),  and  providing 
10.  'Tom-all -Alone's.     The  Ruined  places  of  burial  under  Stale  super- 

*  House  that  got  into  Chancery  nnd  vision, 
never  got  out ; '  ii.  'Bleak  House 


150  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  VII. 

Lo^^oN :      The  inability  to  '  grind  sparks  out  of  this  dull  blade/  as  he 

'  characterized  his  present  labour  at  Bleak  House^  still  fretting  him, 

he  struck  out  a  scheme  for  Paris.    *  I  could  not  get  to  Switzerland 


'  very  well  at  this  time  of  year.  The  Jura  would  be  covered  with 
'  snow.  And  if  I  went  to  Geneva  I  don't  know  where  I  might 
'  not  go  to.'  It  ended  at  last  in  a  flight  to  Dover  ;  but  he  found 
time  before  he  left,  amid  many  occupations  and  some  anxieties, 
for  a  good-natured  journey  to  Walworth  to  see  a  youth  rehearse 
who  was  supposed  to  have  talents  for  the  stage,  and  he  was  able 
Young       to  gladden  Mr.  Toole's  friends  by  thinking  favourably  of  his 

stage-aspi-  iz-  j  • 

'ant.         chances  of  success.    '  I  remember  what  I  once  myself  wanted  m 
*  that  way,'  he  said,  *  and  I  should  like  to  serve  him.' 

At  one  of  the  last  dinners  in  Tavistock  House  before  his  de- 


§11.]  Ho7ne  Incidents.  151 

parture,  Mr.  Watson  of  Rockingham  was  present ;  and  he  was    Dover  : 

1852. 

hardly  settled  in  Camden-crescent,  Dover,  when  he  had  news  of  


the  death  of  that  excellent  friend.    '  Poor  dear  Watson  !    It  was  Mr.  wat- 

*  this  day  two  weeks  when  you  rode  with  us  and  he  dined  with  us.  ^ 

*  We  all  remarked  after  he  had  gone  how  happy  he  seemed  to 
'  have  got  over  his  election  troubles,  and  how  cheerful  he  was. 

*  He  was  full  of  Christmas  plans  for  Rockingham,  and  was  very 
'  anxious  that  we  should  get  up  a  little  French  piece  I  had  been 

*  telling  him  the  plot  of    He  went  abroad  next  day  to  join  Mrs. 

*  Watson  and  the  children  at  Homburg,  and  then  go  to  Lausanne, 

*  where  they  had  taken  a  house  for  a  month.    He  was  seized  at 

*  Homburg  with  violent  internal  inflammation,  and  died — without 
'  much  pain — in  four  days.    ...    I  was  so  fond  of  him  that  I 

*  am  sorry  you  didn't  know  him  better.  I  believe  he  was  as 
'  thoroughly  good  and  true  a  man  as  ever  lived  ;  and  I  am  sure  I 

*  can  have  no  greater  affection  for  him  than  he  felt  for  me.  When 
'  I  think  of  that  bright  house,  and  his  fine  simple  honest  heart, 
'  both  so  open  to  me,  the  blank  and  loss  are  like  a  dream.' 
Other  deaths  followed.    '  Poor  d'Orsay  ! '  he  wrote  after  only  Count 

d'Orsay's 

seven  days  (8th  of  August).    *  It  is  a  tremendous  consideration  death. 
'  that  friends  should  fall  around  us  in  such  awful  numbers  as  we 

*  attain  middle  life.  What  a  field  of  battle  it  is  ! '  Nor  had 
another  month  quite  passed  before  he  lost,  in  Mrs.  Macready,  a 
very  dear  family  friend.    'Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! '  he  wrote.    '  This  Mrs. 

,         .  ,  Macready's. 

'  tremendous  sickle  certainly  does  cut  deep  into  the  surrounding 

*  corn,  when  one's  own  small  blade  has  ripened.    But  this  is  all 
'  a  Dream,  may  be,  and  death  will  wake  us.' 

Able  at  last  to  settle  to  his  work,  he  stayed  in  Dover  three 
months  ;  and  early  in  October,  sending  home  his  family  caravan, 
crossed  to  Boulogne  to  try  it  as  a  resort  for  seaside  holiday.    '  I  Boulognh. 

*  never  saw  a  better  instance  of  our  countrymen  than  this  place. 
<  Because  it  is  accessible  it  is  genteel  to  say  it  is  of  no  character, 

*  quite  English,  nothing  continental  about  it,  and  so  forth.    It  is 

*  as  quaint,  picturesque,  good  a  place  as  I  know ;  the  boatmen 

*  and  fishing-people  quite  a  race  apart,  and  some  of  their  villages 

*  as  good  as  the  fishing-villages  on  the  Mediterranean.  The 
'  Kautc  Ville,  with  a  walk  all  round  it  on  the  rainpartb,  charming. 


^52 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Publishing 
agreements, 
ante,  i.  345. 


Boulogne:  *  The  couti try  walks,  dclisfhtful.    It  is  the  best  mixture  of  town 
1852. 

  *  and  country  (with  sea  air  into  the  bargain)  I  ever  saw ;  every- 

'  thing  cheap,  everything  good  ;  and  please  God  I  shall  be  writing 
*  on  those  said  ramparts  next  July  ! ' 

Before  the  year  closed,  the  time  to  which  his  publishing 
arrangements  with  Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans  were  limited  had 
expired,  but  at  his  suggestion  the  fourth  share  in  such  books  as 
he  might  write,  which  they  had  now  received  for  eight  years,  was 
continued  to  them  on  the  understanding  that  the  publishers'  per- 
centage should  no  longer  be  charged  in  the  partnership  accounts, 
and  with  a  power  reserved  to  himself  to  withdraw  when  he 
pleased.  In  the  new  year  his  first  adventure  was  an  ovation  in 
Birmingham,  where  a  silver-gilt  salver  and  a  diamond  ring  were 
presented  to  him,  as  well  for  eloquent  service  specially  rendered 
to  the  Institution,  as  in  general  testimony  of  'varied  literary 
'  acquirements,  genial  philosophy,  and  high  moral  teaching/  A 
great  banquet  followed  on  Twelfth  Night,  made  memorable  by  an 
offer  *  to  give  a  couple  of  readings  from  his  books  at  the  following 
Christmas,  in  aid  of  the  new  Midland  Institute.  It  might  seem 
to  have  been  drawn  from  him  as  a  grateful  return  for  the  enthu- 
siastic greeting  of  his  entertainers,  but  it  was  in  his  mind  before 
he  left  London.  It  was  his  first  formal  undertaking  to  read  in 
public. 

His  eldest  son  had  now  left  Eton,  and,  the  boy's  wishes 
pointing  at  the  time  to  a  mercantile  career,  he  was  sent  to  Leipzig 
for  completion  of  his  education.!    At  this  date  it  seemed  to  me 


Birming- 
ham : 
1853- 


A  banquet 
and  a  pro- 
mise. 


Dickens 
to  Mr. 
Ryland. 


*  The  promise  was  formally  con- 
veyed next  morning  in  a  letter  to  one 
who  took  the  lead  then  and  since  in 
all  good  work  for  Birmingham,  Mr. 
Arthur  Ryland,  The  reading  would, 
he  said  in  this  letter  (7th  of  Jan.  1853), 

*  take  about  two  hours,  with  a  pause 

*  of  ten  minutes  half  way  through. 

*  There  would  be  some  novelty  in  the 

*  thing,  as  I  have  never  done  it  in 

*  public,  though  I  have  in  private,  and 
'  (if  I  may  say  so)  with  a  great  effect 
'  on  the  hearers. ' 

t  Baron  Tauchnitz,  describing  to 


me  his  long  and  uninterrupted  friendly 
intercourse  with  Dickens,  has  this  re- 
mark :  *  I  give  also  a  passage  from  one 
'  of  his  letters  written  at  the  time 

*  when  he  sent  his  son  Charles,  through 

*  my  mediation,  to  Leipzig.  He  says 
'  in  it  what  he  desires  for  his  son.   '*  I 

*  "  want  him  to  have  all  interest  in, 

*  **  and  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of,  the 

*  **  life  around  him,  and  to  be  treated 

*  **  like  a  gentleman  though  pampered 

*  **in  nothing.    By  punctuality  in  all 

*  **  things,  great  or  small,  I  set  great 
'  "store."' 


Home  Incidents. 


153 


that  the  overstrain  of  attempting  too  much,  brought  upon  him  by  London  : 

the  necessities  of  his  weekly  periodical,  became  first  apparent  in  

Dickens.  Not  unfrequently  a  complaint  strange  upon  his  lips 
fell  from  him.    '  Hypochondriacal  whisperings  tell  me  that  I  am 

*  rather  overworked.    The  spring  does  not  seem  to  fly  back  again  sdf- 

*  directly,  as  it  always  did  when  I  put  my  own  work  aside,  and  ^^''"^^'^ 

*  had  nothing  else  to  do.    Yet  I  have  everything  to  keep  me 

*  going  with  a  brave  heart.  Heaven  knows  ! '  Courage  and  hope- 
fulness he  might  well  derive  from  the  increasing  sale  of  Bleak 
House,  which  had  risen  to  nearly  forty  thousand ;  but  he  could  no 
longer  bear  easily  what  he  carried  so  lightly  of  old,  and  enjoy- 
ments with  work  were  too  much  for  him.    'What  with  Bleak 

*  House  and  Household  Words  and  Child's  History  '  (he  dictated 
from  week  to  week  the  papers  which  formed  that  little  book,  and 
cannot  be  said  to  have  quite  hit  the  mark  with  it),  *  and  Miss 
'  Coutts's  Home,  and  the  invitations  to  feasts  and  festivals,  I 

*  really  feel  as  if  my  head  would  split  like  a  fired  shell  if  I 

*  remained  here.'  He  tried  Brighton  first,  but  did  not  find  it 
answer  and  returned.  *  A  few  days  of  unalloyed  enjoyment  were 
afterwards  given  to  the  visit  of  his  excellent  American  friend 
Felton ;  and  on  the  13th  of  June  he  was  again  in  Boulogne, 
thanking  heaven  for  escape  from  a  breakdown.    '  If  I  had  sub- 

*  stituted  anybody's  knowledge  of  myself  for  my  own,  and  lingered 

*  in  London,  I  never  could  have  got  through.' 

What  befell  him  in  Boulogne  will  be  given,  with  the  incidents  Boulogne" 

1853- 

*  From  one  of  his  letters  while  '  profoundly  staring  -^t  these  lines  for 
there  I  take  a  passage  of  observation  *  half-an-hour  together— and  even  go 
full  of  character.  '  Great  excitement  *  back  to  stare  again— that  I  feel  quite 
'  here  about  a  wretched  woman  who  *  certain  they  had  not  the  power  of 
'  has  murdered  her  child.    Apropos     *  thinking  about  the  thing  at  all  con- 

*  of  which  I  observed  a  curious  thing    *  nectedly  or  continuously,  without 

*  last  night.    The  newspaper  offices     *  having  something  about  it  before 

*  (local  journals)  had  placards  like  this  '  their  sense  of  sight.  Having  got 
'  outside  :  '  that,  they  were  considering  the  case, 

'  wondering  how  the  devil  they  had 
'  CHILD  MURDER  IN  BRIGHTON.       «  ^ome  into  that  power.     I  saw  one 
*  INQUEST.  *  man  in  a  smock  frock  lose  the  said 

*  COMMITTAL  OF  THE  MURDERESS.     '  power  the  moment  he  turned  away, 

*  and  bring;  his  hob-nails  back  again.' 

I  saw  so  many  common  people  staatl 


^54 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  Vii. 


Boulogne  :  of  his  sccond  and  third  summer  visits  to  the  place,  on  a  later 

1853. 

  page.    He  completed  Bleak  House  by  the  third  week  of  August, 

Projected  and  it  was  resolved  to  celebrate  the  event  by  a  two  months'  trip 

trip  to  , 

Italy.  to  Italy,  in  company  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  Mr.  Augustus 
Egg.  The  start  was  to  be  made  from  Boulogne  in  the  middle  of 
October,  when  he  would  send  his  family  home ;  and  he  described 
the  intervening  weeks  as  a  fearful  *  reaction  and  prostration  of 

*  laziness '  only  broken  by  the  Child's  History.  At  the  end  of 
September  he  wrote  :  '  I  finished  the  httle  History  yesterday,  and 
'  am  trying  to  think  of  something  for  the  Christmas  number. 

*  After  which  I  shall  knock  off ;  having  had  quite  enough  to  do, 

*  small  as  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  at  any  other  time,  since  I 

*  finished  Bleak  House.'    He  added,  a  week  before  his  departure  : 

*  I  get  letters  from  Genoa  and  Lausanne  as  if  I  were  going  to 

*  stay  in  each  place  at  least  a  month.    If  I  were  to  measure  my 

*  deserts  by  people's  remembrance  of  me,  I  should  be  a  prodigy 

*  of  intolerability.    Have  recovered  my  Italian,  which  I  had  all 

*  but  forgotten,  and  am  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite  of 

*  idleness.* 

BiRMiNG-      From  this  trip,  of  which  the  incidents  have  an  interest  inde- 

HAM  : 

1853-  pendent  of  my  ordinary  narrative,  Dickens  was  home  again  in  the 
middle  of  December  1853,  and  kept  his  promise  to  his  Birmingham 
friends  by  reading  in  their  Town  Hall  his  Christinas  Carol  on  the 
27th,*  and  his  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  on  the  29th.  The  enthusiasm 
was  great,  and  he  consented  to  read  his  Carol  a  second  time,  on 
First         Friday  the  30th,  if  seats  were  reserved  for  working  men  at  prices 

public 

readings.  within  their  means.  The  result  was  an  addition  of  between  four 
and  five  hundred  pounds  to  the  funds  for  establishment  of  the 
new  Institute ;  and  a  prettily  worked  flower-basket  in  silver,  pre- 
sented to  Mrs.  Dickens,  commemorated  these  first  public  readings 
'  to  nearly  six  thousand  people,'  and  the  design  they  had 
generously  helped.  Other  applications  then  followed  to  such 
extent  that  Hmits  to  compliance  had  to  be  put ;  and  a  letter  of 
the  1 6th  of  May  1854  is  one  of  many  that  express  both  the  diffi- 
culty in  which  he  found  himself,  and  his  much  desired  expedient 

jj|  *  The  reading  occupied  nearly  three  hours  :  double  the  time  devoted  to  it  ia 

the  later  years. 


Home  Incidents, 


155 


for  solving  it.    'The  objection  you  suggest  to  paid   public  = 

*  lecturing  does  not  strike  me  at  all.    It  is  worth  consideration,  -  77 

°  '  As  to  paid 

'  but  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  in  it    On  the  contrary,  if  ^^ifj'^p^^^ 
'  the  lecturing  would  have  any  motive  power  at  all  (like  my  poor 
'  father  this,  in  the  sound  !)  I  believe  it  would  tend  the  other  way. 

*  In  the  Colchester  matter  I  had  already  received  a  letter  from  a 
'  Colchester  magnate  ;  to  whom  I  had  honestly  replied  that  'I 
'  stood  pledged  to  Christmas  readings  at  Bradford  *  and  at 

*  Reading,  and  could  in  no  kind  of  reason  do  more  in  the  public 

*  way.'  The  promise  to  the  people  of  Reading  was  for  Talfourd's 
sake  ;  the  other  was  given  after  the  Birmingham  nights,  when  an 
institute  in  Bradford  asked  similar  help,  and  offered  a  fee  of  fifty 
pounds.    At  first  this  was  entertained  :  but  was  abandoned,  with  Argument 

against 

some  reluctance,  upon  the  argument  that  to  become  publicly  a  read- 
reader  must  alter  without  improving  his  position  publicly  as 
a  writer,  and  that  it  was  a  change  to  be  justified  only  when  the 
higher  calling  should  have  failed  of  the  old  success.  Thus 
yielding  for  the  time,  he  nevertheless  soon  found  the  question 
rising  again  with  the  same  importunity ;  his  own  position  to  it 
being  always  that  of  a  man  assenting  against  his  will  that  it  should 
rest  in  abeyance.  But  nothing  farther  was  resolved  on  yet.  The 
readings  mentioned  came  off  as  promised,  in  aid  of  public 
objects  ;t  a-nd  besides  others  two  years  later  for  the  family  of  a 

*  *  After  correspondence  with  all  wrote  in  the  autumn  of  1855  -  *  ^^^h 

*  parts  of  England,  and  every  kind  of  '  of  Sept.    I  am  going  to  read  for 

*  refusal  and  evasion  on  my  part,  I  am  *  them  here,  on  the  5th  of  next  month, 

*  now  obliged  to  decide  this  question  '  and  have  answered  in  the  last  fort- 

*  — whether  I  shall  read  two  nights  at  *  night  thirty  applications  to  do  the 

*  Bradford  for  a  hundred  pounds.  If  *  like  all  over  England,  Ireland,  and 
*I  do,  I  may  take  as  many  hundred  'Scotland.    Fancy  my  having  to  come 

*  pounds  as  I  choose.'  27th  of  Jan.  '  from  Paris  in  December,  to  do  this, 
1854.  *  at  Peterborough,  Birmingham,  ami 

t  On  the  28th  of  Dec.   1854  he  'Sheffield — old  promises.*    Again  :  Q^^j^ifQ^g 

wrote  from  Bradford  :   '  The  hall  is  23rd  of  Sept.     *  I  am  going  to  read  Readings. 

'  enormous,  and  they  expect  to  seat  *  here,  next  P'riday  week.    There  are 

'  37CO  people   to-night !     Notwith-  '  (as  there  are  everywhere)  a  Literary 

'  standing  which,  it  seems  to  me  a  '  Institution  and  a  Working  Men's 

*  tolerably  easy   place — except   that  *  Institution,  which    have    not  the 

*  the  width  of  the  platform  is  so  *  slii^htest  sympathy  or  connexion. 
'  very  great  to  the  eye  at  first.'  From  'The  stalls  are  five  sliillings,  l)ut  I 
Fuikebtone,  on  kis  way  to  Paris,  he  '  have  made  ilicu;  fix  the  working 


156 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


London:  friend,  he  had  given  the  like  liberal  help  to  institutes  in  Folke- 

  stone,  Chatham,  and  again  in  Birmingham,  Peterborough,  Sheffield, 

Coventry,  and  Edinburgh,  before  the  question  settled  itself  finally 
in  the  announcement  for  paid  public  readings  issued  by  him  in  1858. 
Children's       Carrying  memory  back  to  his  home  in  the  first  half  of  1854, 
theatricals.   ^^^^  things  that  rise  more  pleasantly  in  connection 

with  it  than  the  children's  theatricals.  These  began  with  the 
first  Twelfth  Night  at  Tavistock  House,  and  were  renewed  until 
the  principal  actors  ceased  to  be  children.  The  best  of  the 
performances  were  Tom  Thumb  and  Forttmio,  in  '54  and  '55; 
Dickens  now  joining  first  in  the  revel,  and  Mr.  Mark  Lemon 
Big  actors,  bringing  into  it  his  own  clever  children  and  a  very  mountain  of 
child-pleasing  fun  in  himself.  Dickens  had  become  very  intimate 
with  him,  and  his  merry  genial  ways  had  given  him  unbounded 
popularity  with  the  *  young  'uns/  who  had  no  such  favourite  as 

*  Uncle  Mark.'  In  Fielding's  burlesque  he  was  the  giantess 
Glumdalca,  and  Dickens  was  the  ghost  of  Gaffer  Thumb  ;  the 
names  by  which  they  respectively  appeared  being  the  Infant 
Phenomenon  and  the  Modem  Garrick.    But  the  younger  actors 

Small  carried  off  the  palm.  There  was  a  Lord  Grizzle,  at  whose  ballad 
of  Miss  Villikins,  introduced  by  desire,  Thackeray  rolled  ofi"  his 
seat  in  a  burst  of  laughter  that  became  absurdly  contagious.  Yet 
even  this,  with  hardly  less  fun  from  the  Noodles,  Doodles,  and 
King  Arthurs,  was  not  so  good  as  the  pretty,  fantastic,  comic 
grace  of  Dollalolla,  Huncamunca,  and  Tom.  The  girls  wore 
steadily  the  grave  airs  irresistible  when  put  on  by  little  children ; 
and  an  actor  not  out  of  his  fourth  year,  who  went  through  the 
comic  songs  and  the  tragic  exploits  without  a  wrong  note  or  a 
victim  unslain,  represented  the  small  helmeted  hero.    He  was  in 

Henry       the  bills  as  Mr.  H  ,  but  bore  in  fact  the  name  of  the 

Fielding 

Dickens.  illustrious  author  whose  conception  he  embodied;  and  who 
certainly  would  have  hugged  him  for  Tom's  opening  song, 
delivered  in  the  arms  of  Huncamunca,  if  he  could  have  forgiven 

*  men's  admission  at  threepence,  and     *  be  got'     In  1857,  at  Sir  Joseph 

*  I  hope  it  may  bring  them  together.  Paxton's  request,  he  read  his  Carol 
'  The  event  comes  oflf  in  a  carpenter's     at  Coventry  for  the  Institute 

'  shop,  as  the  biggest  place  that  can 


§11.] 


Home  Incidents. 


157 


the  later  master  in  his  own  craft  for  having  composed  it  afresh 
to  the  air  of  a  ditty  then  wildly  popular . at  the  'Coal  Hole.'* 
The  encores  were  frequent,  and  for  the  most  part  the  little  fellow 
responded  to  them;  but  the  misplaced  enthusiasm  that  took 
similar  form  at  the  heroic  intensity  with  which  he  stabbed  Dolla- 
lolla,  he  rebuked  by  going  gravely  on  to  the  close.  His  Fortunio,  Fortunia 
the  next  Twelfth  Night,  was  not  so  great ;  yet  when,  as  a  prelude 
to  getting  the  better  of  the  Dragon,  he  adulterated  his  drink 
(Mr.  Lemon  played  the  Dragon)  with  sherry,  the  sly  relish  with 
which  he  watched  the  demoralization,  by  this  means,  of  his 
formidable  adversary  into  a  helpless  imbecility,  was  perfect.  Here 
Dickens  played  the  testy  old  Baron,  and  took  advantage  of  the 
excitement  against  the  Czar  raging  in  1855  to  denounce  him  (in  Y^a^I 
2l  song)  as  no  other  than  own  cousin  to  the  very  Bear  that 
Fortunio  had  gone  forth  to  subdue.  He  depicted  him,  in  his 
desolation  of  autocracy,  as  the  Robinson  Crusoe  of  absolute 
state,  who  had  at  his  court  many  a  show-day  and  many  a  high- 
day,  but  hadn't  in  all  his  dominions  a  Friday. f  The  bill,  which 
attributed  these  interpolations  to  *  the  Dramatic  Poet  ot  the 

*  Establishment,'  deserves  allusion  also  for  the  fun  of  the  six  large- 
lettered  announcements  which  stood  at  the  head  of  it,  and  could 

•     My  name  it  is  Tom  Thumb,  *  portion  of  the  extravaganza  put  into 

Small  my  size,  « mouth  of  one  of  the  characters 

ma  my  sue,  «  f-Qj.  jj^g  moment  a  few  lines  of  bur- 
My  name  it  is  Tom  Thumb, 

Small  my  size.  *  lesque  upon  Macbeth,  and  we  re- 
Yet  though  I  am  so  small,  '  member  Mr.  Dickens's  unsuccessful 
I  have  kill'd  the  giants  tall ;  <  attempts  to  teach  the  performer  how 
And  now  I'm  paid  for  all.  ,                Macready,  whom  he  (the 
Small  my  size,  <      _r          \   v,  j                       ■      a  j 
Small  my  size;  'performer)  had  never  seen!  And 

And  now  I'm  paid  for  all,  '  after  the  performance,  when  we  were 

Small  my  size.  «  restored  to  our  evening-party  cos- 
*  tumes,  and   the  school-room  was 

t  This  finds  mention,  I  observe,  *  cleared  for  dancing,  still  a  stray  Account  by 

in  a  pleasant  description  of   '  Mr.  *  "property"  or  two  had  escaped  ilie  o"e  of  the 

•  Dickens's  Amateur  Theatricals,'  *  vigilant  eye  of  the  property-man,  for 
which  appeared  in  Macmillan's  Maga-  •  Douglas  Jerrold  had  picked  up  the 
zine  two  years  ago,  by  one  who  had  '  horse's  head  (Fortunio's  faithful  steed 
been  a  member  of  the  Juvenile  Com-  '  Comrade),  and  was  holding  it  up 
pany.  I  quote  a  passage,  recom-  '  before  the  gi-eatest  living  animal 
mending  the  whole  paper  as  very  *  painter,  who  had  been  one  of  tlic 
agreeably  written,  with  some  shrewd  '  audience,  with  **  Looks  a^  if  it  kui.'W 
criticism.    'Mr.  Planche  had  in  one  '  Edwi»  !"  ' 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vii. 


London : 
i8ss. 


Mr. 

Crummies. 


Smallest  of 
the  come- 
dians. 


Speaking 
at  Drury- 
lane. 


not  have  been  bettered  by  Mr.  Crummies  himself.  *  Re-engage- 
'  ment  of  that  irresistible  comedian '  (the  performer  of  Lord 
Grizzle)  '  Mr.  Ainger  ! '    *  Reappearance  of  Mr.  H.  who  created 

*  so  powerful  an  impression  last  year  ! '    *  Return  of  Mr.  Charles 

*  Dickens  Junior  from  his  German  engagements  ! '    '  Engagement 

*  of  Miss  Kate,  who  declined  the  munificent  offers  of  the  Manage- 
'  ment  last  season  ! '  '  Mr.  Passd,  Mr.  Mudperiod,  Mr.  Measly 
'  Servile,  and  Mr.  Wilkini  Collini ! '    *  First  appearance  on  any 

*  stage  of  Mr.  Plornishmaroontigoonter  (who  has  been  kept  out  of 
'  bed  at  a  vast  expense).'  The  last  performer  mentioned*  was 
yet  at  some  distance  from  the  third  year  of  his  age.  Dickens 
was  Mr.  Passe. 

The  home  incidents  of  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1855  may 
be  mentioned  briefly.  It  was  a  year  of  much  unsettled  discontent 
with  him,  and  upon  return  from  a  short  trip  to  Paris  with  Mr. 
Wilkie  Collins,  he  flung  himself  rather  hotly  into  agitation  with 
the  administrative  reformers,  and  spoke  at  one  of  the  great 
meetings  in  Drury-lane  Theatre.    *  Generally  I  quite  agree  with 

*  you  that  they  hardly  know  what  to  be  at ;  but  it  is  an  immensely 

*  difficult  subject  to  start,  and  they  must  have  every  allowance. 

*  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  by  leaving  them  alone  and  giving  them  no 

*  help,  that  they  can  be  urged  on  to  success.'  In  the  following 
month  (April)  he  took  occasion,  even  from  the  chair  of  the 
General  Theatrical  Fund,  to  give  renewed  expression  to  political 
dissatisfactions.    *  The  Government  hit  took  immensely ;  but  I'm 


*  He  went  with  the  rest  to  Bou- 
logne in  the  summer,  and  an  anecdote 
transmitted  in  one  of  his  father's  letters 
will  show  that  he  maintained  the 
reputation  as  a  comedian  which  his 
early  debut  had  awakened.  'Original 

*  AnecdoteofthePlornishghen- 

*  TER.  This  distinguished  wit,  being 
'  at  Boulogne  with  his  family,  made 
'  a  close  acquaintance  with  his  land- 

*  lord,  whose  name  was  M.  Beaucourt 
'  — the  only  French  word  with  which 
'  he  was  at  that  time  acquainted.  It 

*  happened  that  one  day  he  was  left 

*  unusually  long  in  a  bathing-machine 


when  the  tide  was  making,  accom- 
panied by  his  two  young  brothers 
and  little  English  nurse,  without  be- 
ing drawn  to  land.  The  little  nurse, 
being  frightened,  cried  '*  M'soo  ! 
"  M'soo  !  "  The  two  young  brothers 
being  frightened,  cried  "  Ici !  Ici !" 
Our  wit,  at  once  perceiving  that  his 
English  was  of  no  use  to  him  under 
the  foreign  circumstances,  immedi- 
ately fell  to  bawling  *'  Beau-court !  " 
which  he  continued  to  shout  at  the 
utmost  pitch  of  his  voice  and  with 
great  gravity,  until  rescued. — New 
Boulogne  Jest  Book,  page  578.' 


Home  Incidents. 


159 


'afraid  to  look  at  the  report,  these  things  are  so  ill  done.'    In  London: 

1855. 

the  summer  he  threw  open  to  many  friends  his  Tavistock  House  

Theatre,  having  secured  for  its    'lessee  and  manager  Mr. 

*  Crummies ; '  for  its  poet  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  in  '  an  entirely 

*  new  and  original  domestic  melodrama ; '  and  for  its  scene- 
painter  'Mr.  Stanfield,  R.A.'*    The  Lighthouse^  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Tavistock 

^  ^  House 

Collins,  was  then  produced,  its  actors  being  Mr.  Crummies  the  theatricals, 
manager  (Dickens  in  other  words),  the  Author  of  the  play,  Mr. 
Lemon  and  Mr.  Egg,  and  the  manager's  sister-in-law  and  eldest 
daughter.  It  was  followed  by  the  Guild  farce  of  Mr.  Nightin- 
gale's Diary,  in  which,  besides  the  performers  named,  and  Dickens 
in  his  old  personation  part,  the  manager's  youngest  daughter  and 
Mr.  Frank  Stone  assisted.  The  success  was  wonderful ;  and  in 
the  three  delighted  audiences  who  crowded  to  what  the  bills 
described  as  '  the  smallest  theatre  in  the  world,'  were  not  a  few 
of  the  notabilities  of  London.  Mr.  Carlyle  compared  Dickens's  Mr.  Car- 
wild  picturesqueness  in  the  old  lighthouse  keeper  to  the  famous 
figure  in  Nicholas  Poussin's  bacchanalian  dance  in  the  National 
Gallery;  and  at  one  of  the  joyous  suppers  that  followed  on  each 
night  of  the  play,  Lord  Campbell  told  the  company  that  he  had  Loj<i  Camjy- 
much  rather  have  written  Pickwick  than  be  Chief  Justice  of 
England  and  a  peer  of  Parliamentt 

*  For  the  scene  of  the  Eddystone  '  this,  we  cheered  him  up  very  much, 

Lighthouse  at  this  little  play,  after-  *  and  he  said  he  was  quite  a  man 

wards  placed  in  a  frame  in  the  hall  at  *  again.'    April  1855. 

Gadshill,  a  thousand  guineas  was  given  f  Sitting  at  Nisi  Prius  not  long 

at  the  Dickens  sale.    It  occupied  the  before,  the  Chief  Justice,  with  the  same 

great  painter  only  one  or  two  mom-  out-of-the-way  liking  for  letters,  had 

ings,  and  Dickens  will  tell  how  it  committed  what  was  called  at  the  time 

originated.    Walking  on  Hampstead  a  breach  of  judicial  decorum.  (Such 

Heath  to  think  over  his  Theatrical  indecorums  were  less  uncommon  in  the 

Fund  speech,  he  met  Mr.  Lemon,  and  great  days  of  the  Bench.)  '  The  name,' 

they  went  together  to  Stanfield.   *  He  he  said,   '  of  the  illustrious  Charles 

*  has  been  very  ill,  and  he  told  us  that  '  Dickens  has  been  called  on  the  jury, 

*  large  pictures  are  too  much  for  him,  *  but  he  has  not  answered.    If  his 

*  and  he  must  confine  himself  to  small  '  great  Chancery  suit  had  been  still 

*  ones.    But  I  would  not  have  this,  '  going  on,  I  certainly  would  have  ex- 

*  I  declared  he  must  paint  bigger  ones  '  cused  him,  but,  as  that  is  over,  he 
'  than  ever,  and  what  would  he  think  *  might  have  done  us  the  honour  of 

*  of  beginning  upon  an  act-drop  for  a  '  attending  here  that  he  might  have 

*  proposed  vast  theatre  at  Tavistock  *  seen  how  we  went  on  at  common 

*  House  ?    He  laughed  and  caught  at  '  law.' 


i6o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [EookVII. 


London  :      Then  Came  the  beginning  of  Nobody's  Faulty  as  Little  Dorrit 
1855. 

■  continued  to  be  called  by  him  up  to  the  eve  of  its  pubUcation  ; 

a  flight  to  Folkestone,  to  help  his  sluggish  fancy  \  and  his  return 
to  London  in  October,  to  preside  at  a  dinner  to  Thackeray  on 

Dinner  to    his  goinff  to  Iccturc  in  America.    It  was  a  muster  of  more  than 

Thackeray.  ... 

sixty  admiring  entertainers,  and  Dickens's  speech  gave  happy 
expression  to  the  spirit  that  animated  all,  telling  Thackeray  not 
alone  how  much  his  friendship  was  prized  by  those  present,  and 
how  proud  they  were  of  his  genius,  but  offering  him  in  the  name 
of  the  tens  of  thousands  absent  who  had  never  touched  his  hand 
or  seen  his  face,  life-long  thanks  for  the  treasures  of  mirth,  wit, 
and  wisdom  within  the  yellow-covered  numbers  of  Pendennis  and 
Vanity  Fair.  Peter  Cunningham,  one  of  the  sons  of  Allan,  was 
secretary  to  the  banquet ;  and  for  many  pleasures  given  to  the 
subject  of  this  memoir,  who  had  a  hearty  regard  for  him,  should 
have  a  few  words  to  his  memory. 

His  presence  was  always  welcome  to  Dickens,  and  indeed  to 
all  who  knew  him,  for  his  relish  of  social  life  was  great,  and 
something  of  his  keen  enjoyment  could  not  but  be  shared  by 
Peter  his  company.  His  geniality  would  have  carried  with  it  a  plea- 
Cunning-  guj-ajjie  glow  cven  if  it  had  stood  alone,  and  it  was  invigorated 
by  very  considerable  acquirements.  He  had  some  knowledge  of 
the  works  of  eminent  authors  and  artists ;  and  he  had  an  eager 
interest  in  their  lives  and  haunts,  which  he  had  made  the  subject 
of  minute  and  novel  enquiry.  This  store  of  knowledge  gave 
substance  to  his  talk,  yet  never  interrupted  his  buoyancy  and 
pleasantry,  because  only  introduced  when  called  for,  and  not 
made  matter  of  parade  or  display.  But  the  happy  combination 
of  qualities  that  rendered  him  a  favourite  companion,  and  won  him 
many  friends,  proved  in  the  end  injurious  to  himself.  He  had 
done  much  while  young  in  certain  lines  of  investigation  which 
he  had  made  almost  his  own,  and  there  was  every  promise  that, 
in  the  department  of  biographical  and  literary  research,  he  would 
have  produced  much  weightier  works  with  advancing  years.  This 
however  was  not  to  be.  The  fascinations  of  good  fellowship 
encroached  more  and  more  upon  literary  pursuits,  until  he  nearly 
abandoned  his  former  favourite  studies,  and  sacrificed  all  the 


$11.]  Home  hicidents.  i6i 

deeper  purposes  of  his  life  to  the  present  temptation  of  a  festive  London: 

hour.    Then  his  health  gave  way,  and  he  became  lost  to  friends  

as  well  as  to  literature.  But  the  impression  of  the  bright  and 
amiable  intercourse  of  his  better  time  survived,  and  his  old 
associates  never  ceased  to  think  of  Peter  Cunningham  with 
regret  and  kindness. 

Dickens  went  to  Paris  early  in  October,  and  at  its  close  was 
brought  again  to  London  by  the  sudden  death  of  a  friend,  much 
deplored  by  himself,  and  still  more  so  by  a  distinguished  lady 
who  had  his  loyal  service  at  all  times.  An  incident  before  his 
return  to  France  is  worth  brief  relation.    He  had  sallied  out  for  incident  of 

a  Novem- 

one  of  his  night  walks,  full  of  thoughts  of  his  story,  one  wintery  ber  night 
rainy  evening  (the  8th  of  November),  and  *  pulled  himself  up,' 
outside  the  door  of  Whitechapel  Workhouse,  at  a  strange  sight 
which  arrested  him  there.  Against  the  dreary  enclosure  of  the 
house  were  leaning,  in  the  midst  of  the  downpouring  rain  and 
storm,  what  seemed  to  be  seven  heaps  of  rags  :  '  dumb,  wet, 

*  silent  horrors  '  he  described  them,  *  sphinxes  set  up  against  that 

*  dead  wall,  and  no  one  likely  to  be  at  the  pains  of  solving  them 

*  until  the  General  Overthrow.'  He  sent  in  his  card  to  the 
Master.  Against  him  there  was  no  ground  of  complaint;  he 
gave  prompt  personal  attention ;  but  the  casual  ward  was  full, 

and  there  was  no  help.  The  rag-heaps  were  all  girls,  and  Dickens  Outside 
gave  each  a  shilling.    One  girl,  *  twenty  or  so,'  had  been  Avithout  chapel 
food  a  day  and  night.    *  Look  at  me,'  she  said,  as  she  clutched  house, 
the  shilling,  and  without  thanks  shuffled  off.    So  with  the  rest. 
There  was  not  a  single  '  thank  you.'    A  crowd  meanwhile,  only 
less  poor  than  these  objects  of  misery,  had  gathered  round  the 
scene ;  but  though  they  saw  the  seven  shillings  given  away  they 
asked  for  no  relief  to  themselves,  they  recognized  in  their  sad 
wild  way  the  other  greater  wretchedness,  and  made  room  in 
silence  for  Dickens  to  walk  on. 

Not  more  tolerant  of  the  way  in  which  laws  meant  to  be  most 
humane  are  too  often  administered  in  England,  he  left  in  a  day 
or  two  to  resume  his  Little  Dorrit  in  Paris.  But  before  his  life 
there  is  described,  some  sketches  from  his  holiday  trip  to  Italy 
with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  Mr.  Augustus  Egg,  and  from  his 

VOL.  u.  M 


1 62  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VII. 

Chamou-  three  summer  visits  to  Boulogne,  claim  to  themselves  two  inter- 

Nix : 

^853-  vening  chapters. 


III. 

IN  SWITZERLAND  AND  ITALY. 

The  first  news  of  the  three  travellers  was  from  Chamounix,  on 
the  20th  of  October ;  and  in  it  there  was  little  made  of  the 
fatigue,  and  much  of  the  enjoyment,  of  their  Swiss  travel.  Great 
attention  and  cleanliness  at  the  inns,  very  small  windows  and 
very  bleak  passages,  doors  opening  to  wintery  blasts,  overhanging 
eaves  and  external  galleries,  plenty  of  milk,  honey,  cows,  and 
goats,  much  singing  towards  sunset  on  mountain  sides,  mountains 
almost  too  solemn  to  look  at — that  was  the  picture  of  it,  with 
the  country  everywhere  in  one  of  its  finest  aspects,  as  winter 
Swiss  began  to  close  in.  They  had  started  from  Geneva  the  previous 
people.  inorning  at  four,  and  in  their  day's  travel  Dickens  had  again 
noticed  what  he  spoke  of  formerly,  the  ill-favoured  look  of  the 
people  in  the  valleys  owing  to  their  hard  and  stem  climate.  '  All 
'  the  women  were  like  used-up  men,  and  all  the  men  like  a  sort  of 

*  fagged  dogs.    But  the  good,  genuine,  grateful  Swiss  recognition 
of  the  commonest  kind  word — not  too  often  thrown  to  them 

'  by  our  countrymen — made  them  quite  radiant.    I  walked  the 

*  greater  part  of  the  way,  which  was  like  going  up  the  Monument.' 
On  the  day  the  letter  was  written  they  had  been  up  to  the  Mer 
de  Glace,  finding  it  not  so  beautiful  in  colour  as  in  summer,  but 
grander  in  its  desolation  ;  the  green  ice,  like  the  greater  part  of 
the  ascent,  being  covered  with  snow.    *  We  were  alarmingly  near 

Narrow  *  to  a  vcry  dismal  accident.  We  were  a  train  of  four  mules  and 
escape.       ^        guidcs,  going  along  an  immense  height  like  a  chimney- 

*  piece,  with  sheer  precipice  below,  when  there  came  rolling  from 

*  above,  with  fearfiil  velocity,  a  block  of  stone  about  the  size  of 
'  one  of  the  fountains  in  Trafalgar-square,  which  Egg,  the  last  of 

*  the  party,  had  preceded  by  not  a  yard,  when  it  swept  over  th^ 


§  ni.] 


In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 


*  ledge,  breaking  away  a  tree,  and  rolled  and  tumbled  down  into  Lausannb: 
'  the  valley.    It  had  been  loosened  by  the  heavy  rains,  or  by  

*  some  woodcutters  afterwards  reported  to  be  above.'    The  only 
place  new  to  Dickens  was  Berne  :  '  a  surprisingly  picturesque  Beme 

*  old  Swiss  town,  with  a  view  of  the  Alps  from  the  outside  of 

*  it  singularly  beautiful  in  the  morning  light.'  Everything  else 
was  familiar  to  him  :  though  at  that  winter  season,  when  the 
inns  were  shutting  up,  and  all  who  could  afford  it  were  off  to 
Geneva,  most  things  in  the  valley  struck  him  with  a  new  aspect. 
From  such  of  his  old  friends  as  he  found  at  Lausanne,  where  a 
day  or  two's  rest  was  taken,  he  had  the  gladdest  of  greetings  ; 
'  and  the  wonderiul  manner  in  which  they  turned  out  in  the 

*  wettest  morning  ever  beheld  for  a  Godspeed  down  the  Lake  was 

*  really  quite  pathetia' 

He  had  found  time  to  see  again  the  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind 
youth  at  Mr.  Haldimand's  Institution  {ante,  i.  453)  who  had  aroused 
so  deep  an  interest  in  him  seven  years  before,  but,  in  his  brief 
present  visit,  the  old  associations  would  not  reawaken.  '  Tremen- 
'  dous  efforts  were  made  by  Hertzel  to  impress  him  with  an  idea 

*  of  me,  and  the  associations  belonging  to  me  ;  but  it  seemed  in 

*  ray  eyes  quite  a  failure,  and  I  much  doubt  if  he  had  the  least 

*  perception  of  his  old  acquaintance.    According  to  his  custom, 

*  he  went  on  muttering  strange  eager  sounds  like  Town  and  Down 

*  and  Mown,  but  nothing  more.    I  left  ten  francs  to  be  spent  in 

*  cigars  for  my  old  friend.  If  I  had  taken  one  with  me,  I  think  I 
'  could,  more  successfully  than  his  master,  have  established  my 

*  identity.'  The  child  similarly  afflicted,  the  little  girl  whom  he 
saw  at  the  same  old  time,  had  been  after  some  trial  discharged  as 
an  idiot. 

Before  October  closed,  the  travellers  had  reached  Genoa, 
havmg  been  thirty-one  consecutive  hours  on  the  road  from  Milan. 
They  arrived  in  somewhat  damaged  condition,  and  took  up  their 
lodging  in  the  top  rooms  of  the  Croce  di  Malta,  *  overlooking  the 

*  port  and  sea  pleasantly  and  airily  enough,  but  it  was  no  joke  to 

*  get  so  high,  and  the  apartment  is  rather  vast  and  faded.'  The 
warmth  of  personal  greeting  that  here  awaited  Dickens  was 
given  no  less  to  the  friends  who  accompanied  him,  and  though 


164 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vil. 


Gewa:  the  reader  may  not  share  in  such  private  confidences  as  would 
'^^—^ —  show  the  sensation  created  by  his  reappearance,  and  the  jovial 
ft  Grala  ho^^s  that  were  passed  among  old  associates,  he  will  perhaps  be 
interested  to  know  how  far  the  intervening  years  had  changed 
the  aspect  of  things  and  places  made  pleasantly  familiar  to  us  in 
his  former  letters.  He  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  that  the  old 
walks  were  pretty  much  the  same  as  ever,  except  that  there  had 
been  building  behind  the  Peschiere  up  the  San  Bartolomeo  hill, 
and  the  whole  town  towards  San  Pietro  d' Arena  had  been  quite 
changed.  The  Bisagno  looked  just  the  same,  stony  just  then, 
having  very  little  water  in  it ;  the  vicoli  were  fragrant  with  the 
same  old  flavour  of  *  very  rotten  cheese  kept  in  very  hot  blan- 

*  kets ; '  and  everywhere  he  saw  the  mezzaro  as  of  yore.  The 
Jesuits'  College  in  the  Strada  Nuova  was  become,  under  the 
changed  government,  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  a  splendid  caff^ 
with  a  terrace-garden  had  arisen  between  it  and  Palaviccini's  old 
palace.  *  Pal  himself  has  gone  to  the  dogs.'  Another  new  and 
handsome  cafF^  had  been  built  in  the  Piazza  Carlo  FeHce,  be- 
tween the  old  one  of  the  Bei  Arti  and  the  Strada  Carlo  Felice  ; 
and  the  Teatro  Diurno  had  now  stone  galleries  and  seats,  like  an 
ancient  amphitheatre.  *  The  beastly  gate  and  guardhouse  in  the 
'  Albaro  road  are  still  in  their  dear  old  beastly  state ;  and  the 
'  whole  of  that  road  is  just  as  it  was.  The  man  without  legs  is 
'  still  in  the  Strada  Nuova ;  but  the  beggars  in  general  are  all 

*  cleared  off,  and  our  old  one-arm'd  Belisario  made  a  sudden 

*  evaporation  a  year  or  two  ago.  I  am  going  to  the  Peschiere 
Peschiere  *  to-day.'  To  mysclf  he  described  his  former  favourite  abode  as 
ante,  i.  '  convertcd  into  a  girls'  college  ;  all  the  paintings  of  gods  and 
^  '  ^        goddesses  canvassed  over,  and  the  gardens  gone  to  ruin  \  *  but  O ! 

*  what  a  wonderful  place !  *  He  observed  an  extraordinary  in- 
crease everywhere  else,  since  he  was  last  in  the  splendid  city,  of 

*  life,  growth,  and  enterprise ; '  and  he  declared  his  first  conviction 
to  be  confirmed  that  for  picturesque  beauty  and  character  there 
was  nothing  in  Italy,  Venice  excepted,  *  near  brilliant  old 
'  Genoa.' 

The  voyage  thence  to  Naples,  written  from  the  latter  place,  is 
too  capital  a  description  to  be  lost.    The  steamer  in  which  they 


5  tii.j 


In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 


165 


embarked  Was  '  the  new  express  English  ship,'  but  they  found  her  Leghorn: 
to  be  already  more  than  full  of  passengers  from  Marseilles  (among  on  the  way 
them  an  old  friend,  Sir  Emerson  Tennent,  with  his  family),  and  *°  ^^p^*^'- 
everything  in  confusion.    There  were  no  places  at  the  captain's 
table,  dinner  had  to  be  taken  on  deck,  no  berth  or  sleeping  ac- 
commodation was  available,  and  heavy  first-class  fares  had  to  be 
paid.  Thus  they  made  their  way  to  Leghorn,  where  worse  awaited 
them.  The  authorities  proved  to  be  not  favourable  to  the  *  crack ' 
Enghsh-officered  vessel  (she  had  just  been  started  for  the  India 
mail)  ;  and  her  papers  not  being  examined  in  time,  it  was  too 
late  to  steam  away  again  that  day,  and  she  had  to  lie  all  night 
long  off  the  lighthouse.    *  The  scene  on  board  beggars  descrip-  Jeamslli^ 
'  tion.    Ladies  on  the  tables  ;  gentlemen  under  the  tables  ;  bed- 

*  room  appliances  not  usually  beheld  in  public  airing  themselves 

*  in  positions  where  soup-tureens  had  been  lately  developing 

*  themselves  ;  and  ladies  and  gentlemen  lying  indiscriminately  on 

*  the  open  deck,  arranged  like  spoons  on  a  sideboard.    No  mat- 

*  tresses,  no  blankets,  nothing.    Towards  midnight  attempts  were 

*  made,  by  means  of  awning  and  flags,  to  make  this  latter  scene 
'  remotely  approach  an  Australian  encampment ;  and  we  three 

*  (Collins,  Egg,  and  self)  lay  together  on  the  bare  planks  covered 

*  with  our  coats.    We  were  all  gradually  dozing  off,  when  a  per- 

*  fectly  tropical  rain  fell,  and  in  a  moment  drowned  the  whole 

*  ship.    The  rest  of  the  night  we  passed  upon  the  stairs,  with 

*  an  immense  jumble  of  men  and  women.    When  anybody  came 

*  up  for  any  purpose  we  all  fell  down,  and  when  anybody  came 
'  down  we  all  fell  up  again.  Still,  the  good-humour  in  the  English 
'  part  of  the  passengers  was  quite  extraordinary.  .  .  There  were 

*  excellent  officers  aboard,  and,  in  the  morning,  the  first  mate  lent 

*  me  his  cabin  to  wash  in — which  I  afterwards  lent  to  Egg  and 

*  Collins.     Then  we,  the  Emerson  Tennents,  the  captain,  the 

*  doctor,  and  the  second  officer,  went  off  on  a  jaunt  together  to  a  day 

*  Pisa,  as  the  ship  was  to  lie  all  day  at  Leghorn.    The  captain  m"ht  ac- 

coinmoda' 

*  was  a  capital  fellow,  but  I  led  hun,  facetiously,  such  a  life  the  tion. 

*  whole  day,  that  I  got  most  things  altered  at  night.  Emerson 

*  Tennent's  son,  with  the  greatest  amiability,  insisted  on  turning 

*  out  of  his  state  room  for  me,  and  I  got  a  good  bed  there. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Naples:  *  The  store-room  down  by  the  hold  was  opened  for  Collins  and 
 '■ —  *  Egg ;  and  they  slept  with  the  moist  sugar,  the  cheese  in  cut,  tlie 

*  spices,  the  cruets,  the  apples  and  pears,  in  a  perfect  chandler's 

*  shop — in  company  with  what  a  friend  of  ours  would  call  a  hold 

*  gent,  who  had  been  so  horribly  wet  through  over  night  that 

*  his  condition  frightened  the  authorities ;  a  cat ;  and  the  steward, 

*  who  dozed  in  an  arm-chair,  and  all-night-long  fell  head  fore- 

*  most,  once  every  five  minutes,  on  Egg,  who  slept  on  the  counter 

*  or  dresser.    Last  night,  I  had  the  steward's  own  cabin,  opening 

*  on  deck,  all  to  myself.    It  had  been  previously  occupied  by 

*  some  desolate  lady  who  went  ashore  at  Civita  Vecchia.  There 

*  was  little  or  no  sea,  thank  Heaven,  all  the  trip ;  but  the  rain 

*  was  heavier  than  any  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  lightning  very 

*  constant  and  vivid.    We  were,  with  the  crew,  some  200  people 

*  — provided  with  boats,  at  the  utmost  stretch,  for  one  hundred 

*  perhaps.    I  could  not  help  thinking  what  would  happen  if  we 

*  met  with  any  accident :  the  crew  being  chiefly  Maltese,  and 

*  evidently  fellows  who  would  cut  off  alone  in  the  largest  boat, 

*  on  the  least  alarm ;  the  speed  very  high ;  and  the  running, 

*  thro'  all  the  narrow  rocky  channels.    Thank  God,  however,  here 

*  we  are.' 

A  whimsical  postscript  closed  the  amusing  narrative.    *  We 
A  Greek      *  towcd  from  Civita  Vecchia  the  entire  Greek  navy,  I  believe ; 

war-ship. 

*  consisting  of  a  little  brig  of  war  with  no  guns,  fitted  as  a 

*  steamer,  but  disabled  by  having  burnt  the  bottoms  of  her  boilers 

*  out,  in  her  first  run.    She  was  just  big  enough  to  carry  the 

*  captain  and  a  crew  of  six  or  so  :  but  the  captain  was  so  covered 

*  with  buttons  and  gold  that  there  never  would  have  been  room 

*  for  him  on  board  to  put  those  valuables  away,  if  he  hadn't  worn 

*  them — which  he  consequently  did,  all  night.  Whenever  any- 
'  thing  was  wanted  to  be  done,  as  slackening  the  tow-rope  or 

*  anything  of  that  sort,  our  officers  roared  at  this  miserable 

*  potentate,  in  violent  English,  through  a  speaking  trumpet ;  of 

*  which  he  couldn't  have  understood  a  word  in  the  most  favour- 

*  able  circumstances.    So  he  did  all  the  wrong  things  first,  and 

*  the  right  thing  always  last.    The  absence  of  any  knowledge  of 

*  anything  but  English  on  the  part  of  the  officers  and  stewards  was 


§  III.] 


In  Switzerland  and  Italy, 


167 


'  most  ridiculous.    I  met  an  Italian  gentleman  on  the  cabin  steps   Naples  : 

*  yesterday  morning,  vainly  endeavouring  to  explain  that  he  — 

*  wanted  a  cup  of  tea  for  his  sick  wife.  And  when  we  were  coming 

*  out  of  the  harbour  at  Genoa,  and  it  was  necessary  to  order  away 

*  that  boat  of  music  you  remember,  the  chief  officer  (called  *'aft" 

*  for  the  purpose,  as  "  knowing  something  of  Italian  ")  delivered  English 

.  .  Italian. 

*  himself  m  this  explicit  and  clear  Italian  to  the  principal  per- 

*  former — "  Now  Signora,  if  you  don't  sheer  off  you'll  be  run 

*  "  down,  so  you  had  better  trice  up  that  guitar  of  yours  and  put 

*  "  about."' 

At  Naples  some  days  were  passed  very  merrily;  going  up 
Vesuvius  and  into  the  buried  cities,  with  Layard  who  had  joined 
them,  and  with  the  Tennents.  Here  a  small  adventure  befell 
Dickens  specially,  in  itself  extremely  unimportant,  but  told  by 
him  with  delightful  humour  in  a  letter  to  his  sister-in-law.  The 
old  idle  Frenchman,  to  whom  all  things  are  possible,  with  his 
snuff-box  and  dusty  umbrella  and  all  the  delicate  and  kindly  ob- 
servation, would  have  enchanted  Leigh  Hunt,  and  made  his  way 
to  the  heart  of  Charles  Lamb.  After  mentioning  Mr.  Lowther, 
then  English  charge  d'affaires  in  Naples,  as  a  very  agreeable 
fellow  who  had  been  at  the  Rockingham  play,  he  alludes  to  a 
meeting  at  his  house.    *  We  had  an  exceedingly  pleasant  dinner 

*  of  eight,  preparatory  to  which  I  was  near  having  the  ridiculous 
'  adventure  of  not  being  able  to  find  the  house  and  coming  back 

*  dinnerless.    I  went  in  an  open  carriage  from  the  hotel  in  all 

*  state,  and  the  coachman  to  my  surprise  pulled  up  at  the  end  of  Going  oat 

to  dinner. 

*  the  Chiaja.  "  Behold  the  house,"  says  he,  "  of  II  Signor  Lart- 
'  "  hoor ! " — at  the  same  time  pointing  with  his  whip  into  the 
'  seventh  heaven  where  the  early  stars  were  shining.    "  But  the 

*  "Signor  Larthorr,"  says  I,  "  lives  at  Pausilippo."    "  It  is  true," 

*  says  the  coachman  (still  pointing  to  the  evening  star),  "  but  he 

*  lives  high  up  the  Salita  Sant'  Antonio  where  no  carriage  ever 

*  "  yet  ascended,  and  that  is  the  house  "  (evening  star  as  afore- 

*  said),  "  and  one  must  go  on  foot.    Behold  the  Salita  Sant' 

*  "Antonio  !"    I  went  up  it,  a  mile  and  a  half  I  should  think. 

*  I  got  into  the  strangest  places  among  the  wildest  Neapolitans ; 

*  kitchens,  washing-places,    archways,   stables,  vineyards ;  was 


t68 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  Vii. 


baited  by  dogs,  and  answered,  in  profoundly  unintelligible  lan- 
guage, from  behind  lonely  locked  doors  in  cracked  female 
voices,  quaking  with  fear ;  but  could  hear  of  no  such  English- 
man, nor  any  EngHshman.  Bye  and  bye,  I  came  upon  a 
polenta-shop  in  the  clouds,  where  an  old  Frenchman  with  an 
umbrella  like  a  faded  tropical  leaf  (it  had  not  rained  in  Naples 
for  six  weeks)  was  staring  at  nothing  at  all,  with  a  snuff-box  in 
his  hand.  To  him  I  appealed,  concerning  the  Signor  Larthoor. 
"  Sir,"  said  he,  with  the  sweetest  politeness,  can  you  speak 
"French?"  "Sir,"  said  I,  "a  little."  "Sir,"  said  he,  "I  pre- 
"  sume  the  Signor  Loothere'^ — you  will  observe  that  he  changed 
the  name  according  to  the  custom  of  his  country — "  is  an 
"  Englishman  ?"  I  admitted  that  he  was  the  victim  of  circum- 
stances and  had  that  misfortune.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  *'  one  word 
"more.  Has  he  a  servant  with  a  wooden  leg?"  "Great 
"  heaven,  sir,"  said  I,  "  how  do  I  know  ?  I  should  think  not, 
"  but  it  is  possible."  "  It  is  always,"  said  the  Frenchman, 
"  possible.  Almost  all  the  things  of  the  world  are  always  pos- 
"  sible."  "  Sir,"  said  I — you  may  imagine  my  condition  and 
dismal  sense  of  my  own  absurdity,  by  this  time — "  that  is  true." 
He  then  took  an  immense  pinch  of  snuff,  wiped  the  dust  ofi  his 
umbrella,  led  me  to  an  arch  commanding  a  wonderful  view 
of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  pointed  deep  into  the  earth  from 
which  I  had  mounted.  "  Below  there,  near  the  lamp,  one 
"  finds  an  Englishman  with  a  servant  with  a  wooden  leg.  It 
"  is  always  possible  that  he  is  the  Signor  Loothore."  I 
had  been  asked  at  six  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  getting  on  for 
seven.  I  went  back  in  a  state  of  perspiration  and  misery  not 
to  be  described,  and  without  the  faintest  hope  of  finding  the 
spot.  But  as  I  was  going  farther  down  to  the  lamp,  I  saw  the 
strangest  staircase  up  a  dark  corner,  with  a  man  in  a  white 
waistcoat  (evidently  hired)  standing  on  the  top  of  it  fuming.  I 
dashed  in  at  a  venture,  found  it  was  the  house,  made  the  most 
of  the  whole  story,  and  achieved  much  popularity.  The  best  of 
it  was  that  as  nobody  ever  did  find  the  place,  Lowther  had  put 
a  servant  at  the  bottom  of  the  Salita  to  wait  "  for  an  English 
"  gentleman ; "  but  the  servant  (as  he  presently  pleaded),  de- 


§  ni.] 


In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 


169 


*  ceived  by  the  moustache,  had  allowed  the  English  gentleman  to  ^^g^^^' 

*  pass  unchallenged.'   " 

From  Naples  they  went  to  Rome,  where  they  found  Lockhart, 

*  fearfully  weak  and  broken,  yet  hopeful  of  himself  too  '  (he  died 
the  foUomng  year) ;   smoked  and  drank  punch  with  David 
Roberts,  then  painting  everyday  with  Louis  Haghe  in  St.  Peter's  ;  oid  friends, 
and  took  the  old  walks.  The  Coliseum,  Appian  Way,  and  Streets 

of  Tombs,  seemed  desolate  and  grand  as  ever ;  but  generally, 
Dickens  adds,  *  I  discovered  the  Roman  antiquities  to  be  smaller 

*  than  my  imagination  in  nine  years  had  made  them.  The  Electric 
'  Telegraph  now  goes  like  a  sunbeam  through  the  cruel  old  heart 

*  of  the  Coliseum — a  suggestive  thing  to  think  about,  I  fancied. 

*  The  Pantheon  I  thought  even  nobler  than  of  yore.'  The 
amusements  were  of  course  an  attraction;  and  nothing  at  the 
Opera  amused  the  party  of  three  English  more,  than  another 
party  of  four  Americans  who  sat  behind  them  in  the  pit.    '  All  At  the 
'  the  seats  are  numbered  arm-chairs,  and  you  buy  your  number  at 

*  the  pay-place,  and  go  to  it  with  the  easiest  direction  on  the 

*  ticket  itself.    We   were   early,  and   the  four  places  of  the 

*  Americans  were  on  the  next  row  behind  us — all  together. 

*  After  looking  about  them  for  some  time,  and  seeing  the  greater 

*  part  of  the  seats  empty  (because  the  audience  generally  wait  in 
'  a  caffe  which  is  part  of  the  theatre),  one  of  them  said  "  Waal  I 

*  dunno — I  expect  we  aint  no  call  to  set  so  nigh  to  one  another 

*  "  neither — will  you  scatter  Kernel,  will  you  scatter  sir  ?  " — 

'  Upon  this  the  Kernel  "  scattered  "  some  twenty  benches  off ;  a  'scatter- 

'  ing '  party. 

*  and  they  distributed  themselves  (for  no  earthly  reason  apparently 
'  but  to  get  rid  of  one  another)  all  over  the  pit.    As  soon  as  the 

*  overture  began,  in  came  the  audience  in  a  mass.    Then  the 

*  people  who  had  got  the  numbers  into  which  they  had  "  scattered," 
'  had  to  get  them  out ;  and  as  they  understood  nothing  that  was 
'  said  to  them,  and  could  make  no  reply  but  "  A-mericani,"  you 

*  may  imagine  the  number  of  cocked  hats  it  took  to  dislodge 
'  them.    At  last  they  were  all  got  back  into  their  right  places, 

*  except  one.  About  an  hour  afterwards  when  Moses  {Moses  in 
'  Egypt  was  the  opera)  was  invoking  the  darkness,  and  there  was 

*  a  dead  silence  all  over  the  house,  unwonted  sounds  of  dis- 


I70 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Rome:    *  turbance  broke  out  from  a  distant  corner  of  the  pit,  and  here 
1853.  ^ 
 '  and  there  a  beard  got  up  to  look.    "  What  is  it  neow,  sir  ?  " 

holding      *  said  one  of  the  Americans  to  another ; — "  some  person  seems  to 

*  "  be  getting  along,  again  streeem."  "  Waal  sir  "  he  replied  "  I 
'  "  dunno.  But  I  xpect  'tis  the  Kernel  sir,  a  holdin  on."  So  it 
'  was.  The  Kernel  was  ignominiously  escorted  back  to  his  right 
'  place,  not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  and  in  perfectly  good  spirits 

*  and  temper.*  The  opera  was  excellently  done,  and  the  price  of 
the  stalls  one  and  threepence  English.  At  Milan,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  Scala  was  fallen  from  its  old  estate,  dirty,  gloomy,  dull, 
and  the  performance  execrable. 

Another  theatre  of  the  smallest  pretension  Dickens  sought 
out  with  avidity  in  Rome,  and  eagerly  enjoyed.  He  had  heard 
it  said  in  his  old  time  in  Genoa  that  the  finest  Marionetti  were 
here;  and  now,  after  great  difficulty,  he  discovered  the  com- 
pany in  a  sort  of  stable  attached  to  a  decayed  palace.    *  It  was 

*  a  wet  night,  and  there  was  no  audience  but  a  party  of  French 
Perform-     <  officcrs  and  ourselves.    We  all  sat  together.    I  never  saw  any- 

ance  of 

puppets.      <  thing  more  amazing  than  the  performance — altogether  only  an 

*  hour  long,  but  managed  by  as  many  as  ten  people,  for  we 
*■  saw  them  all  go  behind,  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell.    The  saving 

*  of  a  young  lady  by  a  good  fairy  from  the  machinations  of  an 

*  enchanter,  coupled  with  the  comic  business  of  her  servant 

*  Pulcinella  (the  Roman  Punch)  formed  the  plot  of  the  first  piece. 

*  A  scolding  old  peasant  woman,  who  always  leaned  forward  to 

*  scold  and  put  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  apron,  was 

*  incredibly  natural.    Puncinella,  so  airy,  so  merry,  so  life-like,  so 

*  graceful,  he  was  irresistible.    To  see  him  carrying  an  umbrella 

*  over  his  mistress's  head  in  a  storm,  talking  to  a  prodigious 
'  giant  whom  he  met  in  the  forest,  and  going  to  bed  with  a  pony, 

*  were  things  never  to  be  forgotten.  And  so  delicate  are  the 
'  hands  of  the  people  who  move  them,  that  every  puppet  was  an 

*  Italian,  and  did  exactly  what  an  Italian  does.  If  he  pointed 
'  at  any  object,  if  he  saluted  anybody,  if  he  laughed,  if  he  cried, 

*  he  did  it  as  never  Englishman  did  it  since  Britain  first  at 

*  Heaven's  command  arose — arose — arose,  &c.     There  was  a 

*  ballet  afterwards,  on  the  same  scale,  and  we  came  away  really 


§  in.] 


In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 


171 


*  quite  enchanted  with  the  delicate  drollery  of  the  thing.    French  Rome: 

1853. 

*  officers  more  than  ditto/   

Of  the  great  enemy  to  the  health  of  the  now  capital  of  the 
kingdom  of  Italy,  Dickens  remarked  in  the  same  letter.  '  I  have 
'  been  led  into  some  curious  speculations  by  the  existence  and 

*  progress  of  the  Malaria  about  Rome.    Isn't  it  very  extraordinary 

*  to  think  of  its  encroaching  and  encroaching  on  the  Eternal 

*  City  as  if  it  were  commissioned  to  swallow  it  up  ?    This  year  it  MaiaWa. 

*  has  been  extremely  bad,  and  has  long  outstayed  its  usual  time. 

*  Rome  has  been  very  unhealthy,  and  is  not  free  now.  Few 

*  people  care  to  be  out  at  the  bad  times  of  sunset  and  sunrise, 

*  and  the  streets  are  like  a  desert  at  night    There  is  a  church,  a 

*  very  little  way  outside  the  walls,  destroyed  by  fire  some  16  or 

*  18  years  ago,  and  now  restored  and  re-created  at  an  enormous 

*  expense.  It  stands  in  a  wilderness.  For  any  human  creature 
'  who  goes  near  it,  or  can  sleep  near  it,  after  nightfall,  it  might 

*  as  well  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  uppermost  cataract  of  the 

*  Nile.  Along  the  whole  extent  of  the  Pontine  Marshes  (which 
'  we  came  across  the  other  day),  no  creature  in  Adam's  likeness 
'  lives,  except  the  sallow  people  at  the  lonely  posting-stations.  I 

*  walk  out  from  the  Coliseum  through  the  Street  of  Tombs  to  the 
'  ruins  of  the  old  Appian  Way — pass  no  human  being,  and  see 

*  no  human  habitation  but  ruined  houses  from  which  the  people 

*  have  fled,  and  where  it  is  Death  to  sleep  :  these  houses  being 

*  three  miles  outside  a  gate  of  Rome  at  its  farthest  extent. 

*  Leaving  Rome  by  the  opposite  side,  we  travel  for  many  many 

*  hours  over  the  dreary  Campagna,  shunned  and  avoided  by  all 

'  but  the  wretched  shepherds.     Thirteen  hours'  good  posting  At  Boisena. 

*  brings  us  to  Boisena  (I  slept  there  once  before),  on  the  margin 

*  of  a  stagnant  lake  whence  the  workpeople  fly  as  the  sun  goes 

*  down — where  it  is  a  risk  to  go ;  where  from  a  distance  we  saw 
'  a  mist  hang  on  the  place  ;  where,  in  the  inconceivably  wretched 

*  inn,  no  window  can  be  opened ;  where  our  dinner  was  a  jmle 

*  ghost  of  a  fish  with  an  oily  omelette,  and  we  slept  in  great  moul- 

*  deriner  rooms  tainted  with  ruined  arches  and  heaps  of  dung —  Piague- 

°  .  smitten 

*  and  coming  from  which  we  saw  no  colour  in  the  cheek  of  man,  f  ^ci. 

*  woman,  or  child  for  another  twenty  miles.   Imagine  this  phantom 


172 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Boofc  Vll. 


Venice  : 
1853- 


November. 


Habits  of 
gondoliers. 


'  knocking  at  the  gates  of  Rome ;  passing  them ;  creeping  along 

*  the  streets ;  haunting  the  aisles  and  pillars  of  the  churches  ; 
'  year  by  year  more  encroaching,  and  more  impossible  of 

*  avoidance.' 

From  Rome  they  posted  to  Florence,  reaching  it  in  three  days 
and  a  half,  on  the  morning  of  the  20th  of  November;  having 
then  been  out  six  weeks,  with  only  three  days'  rain  ;  and  in 
another  week  they  were  at  Venice.  *  The  fine  weather  has  ac- 
'  companied  us  here,'  Dickens  wrote  on  the  28th  of  November, 

*  the  place  of  all  others  where  it  is  necessary,  and  the  city  has 
'  been  a  blaze  of  sunlight  and  blue  sky  (with  an  extremely  clear 

*  cold  air)  ever  since  we  have  been  in  it.    If  you  could  see  it 

*  at  this  moment  you  would  never  forget  it.    We  live  in  the  same 

*  house  that  I  lived  in  nine  years  ago,  and  have  the  same  sitting- 

*  room — close  to  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  and  the  Palace  of  the  Doges. 

*  The  room  is  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  there  is  a  narrow 

*  street  of  water  running  round  the  side  :  so  that  we  have  the 
'  Grand  Canal  before  the  two  front  windows,  and  this  wild  little 
'  street  at  the  corner  window :  into  which,  too,  our  three  bed- 
'  rooms  look.    We  established  a  gondola  as  soon  as  we  arrived, 

*  and  we  slide  out  of  the  hall  on  to  the  water  twenty  times  a  day. 

*  The  gondoliers  have  queer  old  customs  that  belong  to  their 

*  class,  and  some  are  sufficiently  disconcerting.  .  .  It  is  a  point  of 
'  honour  with  them,  while  they  are  engaged,  to  be  always  at  your 

*  disposal.    Hence  it  is  no  use  telling  them  they  may  go  home 

*  for  an  hour  or  two — for  they  won't  go.    They  roll  themselves 

*  in  shaggy  capuccins,  great  coats  with  hoods,  and  lie  down  on 

*  the  stone  or  marble  pavement  until  they  are  wanted  again.  So 
'  that  when  I  come  in  or  go  out,  on  foot — which  can  be  done 

*  from  this  house  for  some  miles,  over  little  bridges  and  by  narrow 

*  ways — I  usually  walk  over  the  principal  of  my  vassals,  whose 
'  custom  it  is  to  snore  immediately  across  the  doorway.  Conceive 
'  the  oddity  of  the  most  familiar  things  in  this  place,  from  one 

*  instance  :  Last  night  we  go  downstairs  at  half-past  eight,  step 
'  into  the  gondola,  slide  away  on  the  black  water,  ripple  and 

*  plash  swiftly  along  for  a  mile  or  two,  land  at  a  broad  flight  of 

*  steps,  and  instantly  walk  into  the  most  brilliant  and  beautiful 


§  III.]  In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 


73 


*  theatre  conceivable — all  silver  and  blue,  and  precious  little  Venicb: 

*  fringes  made  of  glittering  prisms  of  glass.    There  we  sit  until  

*  half-past  eleven,  come  out  again  (gondolier  asleep  outside  the 
'  box-door),  and  in  a  moment  are  on  the  black  silent  water, 
'  floating  away  as  if  there  were  no  dry  building  in  the  world.  It 

*  stops,  and  in  a  moment  we  are  out  again,  upon  the  broad  solid 

*  Piazza  of  St  Mark,  brilliantly  lighted  with  gas,  very  like  the 

*  Palais  Royal  at  Paris,  only  far  more  handsome,  and  shining  with 

*  no  end  of  caffes.    The  two  old  pillars  and  the  enormous  bell- 

*  tower  are  as  gruff  and  solid  against  the  exquisite  starlight  as  if 

*  they  were  a  thousand  miles  from  the  sea  or  any  undermining 
'  water;  and  the  front  of  the  cathedral,  overlaid  with  golden 

*  mosaics  and  beautiful  colours,  is  like  a  thousand  rainbows  even 
'  in  the  night' 

His  formerly  expressed  notions  as  to  art  and  pictures  in  Italy  Uses^of 
received  confirmation  at  this  visit    *  I  am  more  than  ever  con- 

*  firmed  in  my  conviction  that  one  of  the  great  uses  of  travelling 

*  is  to  encourage  a  man  to  think  for  himself,  to  be  bold  enougli 

*  always  to  declare  without  offence  that  he  does  think  for  himself, 
'  and  to  overcome  the  villainous  meanness  of  professing  what 

*  other  people  have  professed  when  he  knows  (if  he  has  capacity 

*  to  originate  an  opinion)  that  his  profession  is  untrue.    The  in- 

*  tolerable  nonsense  against  which  genteel  taste  and  subserviency 

*  are  afraid  to  rise,  in  connection  with  art,  is  astounding.  Egg's 

*  honest  amazement  and  consternation  when  he  saw  some  of  the 

*  most  trumpeted  things  was  what  the  Americans  call  a  "caution." 

*  In  the  very  same  hour  and  minute  there  were  scores  of  people 

*  falling  into  conventional  raptures  with  that  very  poor  Apollo, 

*  and  passing  over  the  most  beautiful  little  figures  and  heads  in 

*  the  whole  Vatican  because  they  were  not  expressly  set  up  to  be 

*  worshipped.    So  in  this  place.    There  are  pictures  by  Tinto-  Tintoretto. 

*  retto  in  Venice  more  delightful  and  masterly  than  it  is  possible 

*  sufficiently  to  express.     His  Assembly  of  the  Blest  I  do 

*  believe  to  be,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  most  wonderful  and  charm- 
'  ing  picture  ever  painted.    Your  guide-book  writer,  representing 

*  the  general  swarming  of  humbugs,  rather  patronizes  Tintoretto 

*  as  a  man  of  some  sort  of  merit ;  and  (bound  to  follow  Eustace, 


174 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Venice:   '  Forsyth,  and  all  the  rest  of  them)  directs  you,  on  pain  of 
1853. 

 '  being  broke  for  want  of  gentility  in  appreciation,  to  go  into 

Conven-  ... 

tionai  '  ecstacies  with  things  that  have  neither  imagination,  nature,  pro- 
praise.  .  . 

*  portion,  possibility,  nor  anything  else  in  them.  You  immediately 

*  obey,  and  tell  your  son  to  obey.    He  tells  his  son,  and  he  tells 

*  his,  and  so  the  world  gets  at  three-fourths  of  its  frauds  and 
^  miseries.' 

Turin  :       The  last  place  visited  was  Turin,  where  the  travellers  arrived 

December. 

on  the  5th  of  December,  finding  it,  with  a  brightly  shining  sun, 
intensely  cold  and  freezing  hard.  ^  There  are  double  windows  to 
'  all  the  rooms,  but  the  Alpine  air  comes  down  and  numbs  my 

*  feet  as  I  write  (in  a  cap  and  shawl)  within  six  feet  of  the  fire.* 
There  was  yet  something  better  than  this  to  report  of  that 
bracing  Alpine  air.  To  Dickens's  remarks  on  the  Sardinian  race, 
and  to  what  he  says  of  the  exile  of  the  noblest  Italians,  the  mo- 
mentous events  of  the  few  following  years  gave  striking  comment; 
nor  could  better  proof  be  afforded  of  the  judgment  he  brought  to 
the  observation  of  what  passed  before  him.    The  letter  had  in  all 

Liking  for  rcspccts  much  interest  and  attractiveness.  *  This  is  a  remarkably 
dinianl      *  agreeable  place.  A  beautiful  town,  prosperous,  thriving,  growing 

*  prodigiously,  as  Genoa  is ;  crowded  with  busy  inhabitants  ;  full 

*  of  noble  streets  and  squares.     The  Alps,  now  covered  deep 

*  with  snow,  are  close  upon  it,  and  here  and  there  seem  almost 

*  ready  to  tumble  into  the  houses.     The  contrast  this  part  of 

*  Italy  presents  to  the  rest,  is  amazing.  Beautifully  made  rail- 
'  roads,  admirably  managed ;  cheerful,  active  people ;  spirit, 
'  energy,  life,  progress.    In  Milan,  in  every  street,  the  noble 

*  palace  of  some  exile  is  a  barrack,  and  dirty  soldiers  are  lolling 
'  out  of  the  magnificent  windows — it  seems  as  if  the  whole  place 

*  were  being  gradually  absorbed  into  soldiers.    In  Naples,  some- 

*  thing  like  a  hundred  thousand  troops,    "  I  knew,"  I  said  to  a 

*  certain  Neapolitan  Marchese  there  whom  I  had  known  before, 
Frierds  in    *  and  who  Came  to  see  me  the  night  after  I  arrived,  "  I  knew 

Naples. 

'  "  a  very  remarkable  gentleman  when  I  was  last  here  ;  who  had 

*  "  never  been  out  of  his  own  country,  but  was  perfectly  ac- 

*  "  quainted  with  English  literature,  and  had  taught  himself  to 

*  *'  speak  English  in  that  wonderful  manner  that  no  one  could 


§  ni.] 


In  Switzerlafid  and  Italy. 


175 


*  "have  known  him  for  a  foreigner;  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  Turin: 

*  "  him  again,  but  I  forget  his  name." — He  named  him,  and  his  — 

'  face  fell  directly.    "  Dead?  "  said  I.—"  In  exile."—"  O  dear  Noblest  in 

exile. 

*  "  me ! "  said  I,  "  I  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  him  again, 
'  "more  than  any  one  I  was  acquainted  with  in  the  country  !" — 

*  "  What  would  you  have  ! "  says  the  Marchese  in  a  low  voice. 
'  "  He  was  a  remarkable  man — full  of  knowledge,  full  of  spirit, 

*  "  full  of  generosity.    Where  should  he  be  but  in  exile  !  Where 

*  "  could  he  be ! "    We  said  not  another  word  about  it,  but  I 

*  shall  always  remember  the  short  dialogue.' 

On  the  other  hand  there  were  incidents  of  the  Austrian  occu- 
pation as  to  which  Dickens  thought  the  ordinary  style  of  comment 
unfair;  and  his  closing  remark  on  their  police  is  well  worth 
preserving.    *  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  think  that  our  country-  Austrian 

*  men  are  to  blame  in  the  matter  of  the  Austrian  vexations  to  a^rlnge- 

*  travellers  that  have  been  complained  of.  Their  manner  is  so 
'■  very  bad,  they  are  so  extraordinarily  suspicious,  so  determined 
'  to  be  done  by  everybody,  and  give  so  much  offence.  Now, 
'  the  Austrian  police  are  very  strict,  but  they  really  know  how  to 

*  do  business,  and  they  do  it.    And  if  you  treat  them  like  gen- 
tlemen, they  will  always  respond.    When  we  first  crossed  the 

*  Austrian  frontier,  and  were  ushered  into  the  police  office,  I  took 
'  off  my  hat.  The  officer  immediately  took  off  his,  and  was  as 
'  polite — still  doing  his  duty,  without  any  compromise — as  it  was 

*  possible  to  be.    When  we  came  to  Venice,  the  arrangements 

*  were  very  strict,  but  were  so  business-like  that  the  smallest 

*  possible  amount  of  inconvenience  consistent  with  strictness 

*  ensued.    Here  is  the  scene.    A  soldier  has  come  into  the  rail- 

*  way  carriage  (a  saloon  on  the  American  plan)  some  miles  off, 
'  has  touched  his  hat,  and  asked  for  my  passport.    I  have  given 

*  it.    Soldier  has  touched  his  hat  again,  and  retired  as  from  the 

*  presence  of  superior  officer.    Alighted  from  carriage,  we  pass 

*  into  a  place  like  a  banking-house,  lighted  up  with  gas.  Nobody 

*  bullies  us  or  drives  us  there,  but  we  must  go,  because  the  road 

*  ends  there.    Several  soldierly  clerks.     One  very  sharp  chief. 

*  My  passport  is  brought  out  of  an  inner  room,  certified  to  be 
'  en  rfegle.    Very  sharp  chiet  takes  it,  looks  at  it  (it  is  rather 


176 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


Italy:    *  longer,  now,  than  Hamlef),  calls  out — "  Signor  Carlo  Dickens  !  " 

io53' 

—  *  "  Here  I  am,  sir."    "  Do  you  intend  remaining  long  in  Venice 

<  «  sir  ?  "    "  Probably  four  days  sir  !  "    "  Italian  is  known  to  you 

*  "  sir.    You  have  been  in  Venice  before  ?"    "  Once  before  sir." 

*  "  Perhaps  you  remained  longer  then  sir  ?  "    "  No  indeed  ;  I 

*  "  merely  came  to  see,  and  went  as  I  came."    "  Truly  sir  ?  Do 

*  "  I  infer  that  you  are  going  by  Trieste  ?  "    "  No.    I  am  going 

*  "  to  Parma,  and  Turin,  and  by  Paris  home."    "  A  cold  journey 

*  "  sir,  I  hope  it  may  be  a  pleasant  one."    "  Thank  you." — He 

*  gives  me  one  very  sharp  look  all  over,  and  wishes  me  a  very 
'  happy  night.    I  wish  him  a  very  happy  night  and  it's  done. 

*  The  thing  being  done  at  all,  could  not  be  better  done,  or  more 

*  politely — though  I  dare  say  if  I  had  been  sucking  a  gentish 

*  cane  all  the  time,  or  talking  in  English  to  my  compatriots,  it 

*  might  not  unnaturally  have  been  different.  At  Turin  and  at 
'  Genoa  there  are  no  such  stoppages  at  all ;  but  in  any  other  part 

*  of  Italy,  give  me  an  Austrian  in  preference  to  a  native  func- 

*  tionary.    At  Naples  it  is  done  in  a  beggarly,  shambling,  bung- 
oid  ^         *  ling,  tardy,  vulgar  way ;  but  I  am  strengthened  in  my  old 

*  impression  that  Naples  is  one  of  the  most  odious  places  on  the 

*  face  of  the  earth.    The  general  degradation  oppresses  me  like 

*  foul  air.' 


IV. 

THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 
1853,  1854,  AND  1856. 

Boulogne:  Dickens  was  in  Boulogne,  in  1853,  from  the  middle  of  June 
to  the  end  of  September,  and  for  the  next  three  months,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  in  Switzerland  and  Italy.  In  the  following  year 
he  went  again  to  Boulogne  in  June,  and  stayed,  after  finishing 

Visits  to  Hard  Times ,  until  far  into  October.  In  February  of  1855  he 
was  for  a  fortnight  in  Paris  with  Mr.  Wilkie  CoUins ;  not  taking 
up  his  more  prolonged  residence  there  until  the  winter.  From 
November  1855  to  the  end  of  April  1856  he  made  the  French 


§  IV.] 


Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 


177 


capital  his  home,  working  at  Little  Dorrit  during  all  those  months.  Boulognb  : 

1853. 

Then,  after  a  month's  interval  in  Dover  and  London,  he  took  up  

his  third  summer  residence  in  Boulogne,  whither  his  younger 
children  had  gone  direct  from  Paris  ;  and  stayed  until  September, 
finishing  Little  Dorrit  in  London  in  the  spring  of  1857. 

Of  the  first  of  these  visits,  a  few  lively  notes  of  humour  and 
character  out  of  his  letters  will  tell  the  story  sufficiently.  The 
second  and  third  had  points  of  more  attractiveness.  Those  were 
the  years  of  the  French-English  alliance,  of  the  great  exposition  of 
English  paintings,  of  the  return  of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea, 
and  of  the  visit  of  the  Prince  Consort  to  the  Emperor ;  such 
interest  as  Dickens  took  in  these  several  matters  appearing  in  his 
letters  with  the  usual  vividness,  and  the  story  of  his  continental 
life  coming  out  with  amusing  distinctness  in  the  successive 
pictures  they  paint  with  so  much  warmth  and  colour.  Another 
chapter  will  be  given  to  Paris.    This  deals  only  with  Boulogne. 

For  his  first  summer  residence,  in  June  1853,  he  had  taken  a  ^^5^ 
house  on  the  high  ground  near  the  Calais  road  ;  an  odd  French 
place  with  the  strangest  little  rooms  and  halls,  but  standing  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  garden,  with  wood  and  waterfall,  a  conservatory 
opening  on  a  great  bank  of  roses,  and  paths  and  gates  on  one 
side  to  the  ramparts,  on  the  other  to  the  sea.  Above  all  there 
was  a  capital  proprietor  and  landlord,  by  whom  the  cost  of 
keeping  up  gardens  and  wood  (which  he  called  a  forest)  was 
defrayed,  while  he  gave  his  tenant  the  whole  range  of  both  and 
all  the  flowers  for  nothing,  sold  him  the  garden  produce  as  it  was 
wanted,  and  kept  a  cow  on  the  estate  to  supply  the  family  milk. 

*  If  this  were  but  300  miles  farther  off,'  wrote  Dickens,  *  how  the 

*  English  would  rave  about  it !    I  do  assure  you  that  there  are 

*  picturesque  people,  and  town,  and  country,  about  this  place, 

*  that  quite  fill  up  the  eye  and  fancy.    As  to  the  fishing  people  Fisher- 

*  (whose  dress  can  have  changed  neither  in  colour  nor  in  form  for  ^ualter. 

*  many  many  years),  and  their  quarter  of  the  town  cobweb-hung 

*  with  great  brown  nets  across  the  narrow  up-hill  streets,  they  are 

*  as  good  as  Naples,  every  bit'  His  description  both  of  house  and 
landlord,  of  which  I  tested  the  exactness  when  I  visited  him,  was 
in  the  old  pleasant  vein  ;  requiring  no  connection  with  himself  to 

vou  11:  11 


T78 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI l. 


Boulogne',  give  it  interest,  but,  by  the  charm  and  ease  with  which  everything 

 picturesque  or  characteristic  was  disclosed,  placed  in  the  domain 

of  art. 

vniades  *  O  the  rain  here  yesterday  ! '  (26th  of  June.)  'A  great  sea- 
Mouhn-      ^      rolling  in,  a  strong  wind  blowing,  and  the  rain  coming  down 

*  in  torrents  all  day  long.   .    .    This  house  is  on  a  great  hill-side, 

*  backed  up  by  woods  of  young  trees.    It  faces  the  Haute  Ville 

*  with  the  ramparts  and  the  unfinished  cathedral — which  capital 

*  object  is  exactly  opposite  the  windows.    On  the  slope  in  front, 

*  going  steep  down  to  the  right,  all  Boulogne  is  piled  and  jumbled 

*  about  in  a  very  picturesque  manner.    The  view  is  charming — 

*  closed  in  at  last  by  the  tops  of  swelling  hills  ;  and  the  door  is 

*  within  ten  minutes  of  the  post-office,  and  within  quarter  of  an 
Garden  and  «  hour  of  the  sca.    The  garden  is  made  in  terraces  up  the  hill-side, 

fountains.  °  , 

Mike  an  Italian  garden;  the  top  walks  being  in  the  before- 

*  mentioned  woods.  The  best  part  of  it  begins  at  the  level  of 
'  the  house,  and  goes  up  at  the  back,  a  couple  of  hundred  feet 
'  perhaps.    There  are  at  present  thousands  of  roses  all  about  the 

*  house,  and  no  end  of  other  flowers.    There  are  five  great 

*  summer-houses,  and  (I  think)  fifteen  fountains — not  one  of 

*  which  (according  to  the  invariable  French  custom)  ever  plays. 
The  house  is  a  doll's  house  of  many  rooms.    It  is  one  story 

*  high,  with  eight  and  thirty  steps  up  and  down — tribune  wise — to 

*  the  front  door :  the  noblest  French  demonstration  I  have  ever 
A  doll's      *  seen  I  think.    It  is  a  double  house  ;  and  as  there  are  only  four 

house. 

*■  windows  and  a  pigeon-hole  to  be  beheld  in  front,  you  would 

*  suppose  it  to  contain  about  four  rooms.  Being  built  on  the 
'  hill-side,  the  top  story  of  the  house  at  the  back — there  are  two 

*  stories  there — opens  on  the  level  of  another  garden.  On  the 
*■  ground  floor  there  is  a  very  pretty  hall,  almost  all  glass ;  a  little 
'  dining-room  opening  on  a  beautiful  conservatory,  which  is  also 

*  looked  into  through  a  great  transparent  glass  in  a  mirror-frame 
'■  over  the  chimney-piece,  just  as  in  Paxton's  room  at  Chatsworth  ; 
'  a  spare  bed-room,  two  little  drawing-rooms  opening  into  one 
'  another,  the  family  bed-rooms,  a  bath-room,  a  glass  corridor,  an 

*  open  yard,  and  a  kind  of  kitchen  with  a  machinery  of  stoves 

*  and  boilers.    Above,  there  are  eight  tiny  bed-rooms  all  opening 


§  IV.]  Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 


179 


'  on  one  great  room  in  the  roof,  originally  intended  for  a  billiard-  Boulogne  ^ 

1853. 

*  room.    In  the  basement  there  is  an  admirable  kitchen  with   

*  every  conceivable  requisite  in  it,  a  noble  cellar,  first-rate  man's 
'  room  and  pantry ;  coach-house,  stable,  coal-store  and  wood- 
'  store ;  and  in  the  garden  is  a  pavilion,  containing  an  excellent 
'  spare  bed-room  on  the  ground  floor.    The  getting-up  of  these 

*  places,  the  looking-glasses,  clocks,  little  stoves,  all  manner  of 

*  fittings,  must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated.    The  conservatory  is 

*  fill!  of  choice  flowers  and  perfectly  beautiful.' 

Then  came  the  charm  of  the  letter,  his  description  of  his  land- 
lord, lightly  sketched  by  him  in  print  as  M.  Loyal-Devasseur,  but  Landlord, 
here  filled  in  with  the  most  attractive  touches  his  loving  hand 
could  give.    *  But  the  landlord — M.  Beaucourt — is  wonderful. 
'  Everybody  here  has  two  surnames  (I  cannot  conceive  why),* 

*  and  M.  Beaucourt,  as  he  is  always  called,  is  by  rights  M.  Beau- 

*  court-Mutuel.  He  is  a  portly  jolly  fellow  with  a  fine  open  face  ; 
'  lives  on  the  hill  behind,  just  outside  the  top  of  the  garden ;  and 

*  was  a  linen  draper  in  the  town,  where  he  still  has  a  shop,  but  is 
'  supposed  to  have  mortgaged  his  business  and  to  be  in  difficulties 
'  — all  along  of  this  place,  which  he  has  planted  with  his  own 
'  hands  ;  which  he  cultivates  all  day  ;  and  which  he  never  on  any 
'  consideration  speaks  of  but  as  "  the  property."    He  is  extra- 

*  ordinarily  popular  in  Boulogne  (the  people  in  the  shops  in-  Bon 

gar^on. 

*  variably  brightening  up  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  and  con- 

*  gratulating  us  on  being  his  tenants),  and  really  seems  to  deserve 

*  it  He  is  such  a  liberal  fellow  that  I  can't  bear  to  ask  him  for 
'  anything,  since  he  instantly  supplies  it  whatever  it  is.  The 

*  things  he  has  done  in  respect  of  unreasonable  bedsteads  and 

*  washing-stands,  I  blush  to  think  of.    I  observed  the  other  day 

*  in  one  of  the  side  gardens — there  are  gardens  at  each  side  of  the 

*  house  too — a  place  where  I  thought  the  Comic  Countryman  * 
(a  name  he  was  giving  just  then  to  his  youngest  boy)  *must 

*  infallibly  trip  over,  and  make  a  little  descent  of  a  dozen  feet. 

*  So  I  said  "  M.  Beaucourt " — who  instantly  pulled  off"  his  cap 

*  and  stood  bareheaded — "  there  are  some  spare  pieces  of  wood 

*  He  soon  became  acquainted  with  the  custom  of  a  man's  adopting  his  wife's 
nao)e  in  addition  to  his  owo. 

N  ? 


i8o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


Boulogne  :  *  "  lying  by  the  cow-house,  if  you  would  have  the  kindness  to 
1853. 

'  *  "  have  one  laid  across  here  I  think  it  would  be  safer."    "  Ah, 

*  "  mon  dieu  sir,"  said  M.  Beaucourt,  "  it  must  be  iron.    This  is 

*  "not  a  portion  of  the  property  where  you  would  like  to  see 

*  "wood."    "  But  iron  is  so  expensive,"  said  I,  "and  it  really  is 

*  "  not  worth  while  "    "  Sir,  pardon  me  a  thousand  times," 

*  said  M.  Beaucourt,  "  it  shall  be  iron.    Assuredly  and  perfectly 

*  "it  shall  be  iron."    "Then  M.  Beaucourt,"  said  I,  "I  shall  be 

*  "glad  to  pay  a  moiety  of  the  cost."  "Sir,"  said  M.  Beaucourt, 
'■  "  Never  ! "    Then  to  change  the  subject,  he  slided  from  his 

*  firmness  and  gravity  into  a  graceful  conversational  tone,  and 

*  said,  "  In  the  moonlight  last  night,  the  flowers  on  the  property 

*  "  appeared,  O  Heaven,  to  be  bathing  themselves  in  the  sky.  You 

*  "  like  the  property  ? "  "  M.  Beaucourt,"  said  I,  "  I  am  en- 
*" chanted  with  it;  I  am  more  than  satisfied  with  everything." 

*  "  And  I  sir,"  said  M.  Beaucourt,  laying  his  cap  upon  his  breast, 

*  and  kissing  his  hand — "  I  equally  ! "    Yesterday  two  black- 
M.  Beau-    «  smiths  Came  for  a  day's  work,  and  put  up  a  good  solid  handsome 

court  and  ^  ^  _  _  _  r        r  o 

t^e^  Vo-     <  bit  of  iron-railing,  morticed  into  the  stone  parapet.  .  .  If  the 

*  extraordinary  things  in  the  house  defy  description,  the  amazing 
'  phenomena  in  the  gardens  never  could  have  been  dreamed  of 

*  by  anybody  but  a  Frenchman  bent  upon  one  idea.    Besides  a 

*  portrait  of  the  house  in  the  dining-room,  there  is  a  plan  of  the 

*  property  in  the  hall.    It  looks  about  the  size  of  Ireland ;  and  to 

*  every  one  of  the  extraordinary  objects,  there  is  a  reference  with 

*  some  portentous  name.    There  are  fifty-one  such  references, 

*  including  the  Cottage  of  Tom  Thumb,  the  Bridge  of  Austerlitz, 
Making  the  <■  the  Bridge  of  Jena,  the  Hermitage,  the  Bower  of  the  Old  Guard, 

*  the  Labyrinth  (I  have  no  idea  which  is  which) ;  and  there  is 
'  guidance  to  every  room  in  the  house,  as  if  it  were  a  place  on 

*  that  stupendous  scale  that  without  such  a  clue  you  must 

*  infallibly  lose   your  way,  and  perhaps   perish  of  starvation 

*  between  bedroom  and  bedroom.'  * 

*  Prices  are  reported  in  one  of  the  *  expected,  though  very  different  from 

letters ;  and,  considering  what  they  '  London :  besides  which,  a  pound 

have  been  since,  the  touch  of  disap-  *  weight  here,  is  a  pound  and  a  quarter 

pointment  hinted  at  may  raise  a  smile.  *  English.     So  that  meat  at  ^jd.  a 

*  |*rQvis|ons  are  scarcely  as  cheap  as  I  *  pound,  is  actually  a  fourth  less.  \ 


§  IV.]  Three  Summers  at  Boulogne.  l8i 

On  the  3rd  of  July  there  came  a  fresh  trait  of  the  good  fellow  Boulogne: 
of  a  landlord.   *  Fancy  what  Beaucourt  told  me  last  night.   When  — 

*  he  "  conceived  the  inspiration "  of  planting  the  property  ten  England. 
'  years  ago,  he  went  over  to  England  to  buy  the  trees,  took  a 

'  small  cottage  in  the  market-gardens  at  Putney,  lived  there  three 

*  months,  held  a  symposium  every  night  attended  by  the  principal 
'  gardeners  of  Fulham,  Putney,  Kew,  and  Hammersmith  (which 

*  he  calls  Hamsterdam),  and  wound  up  with  a  supper  at  which 

*  the  market-gardeners  rose,  clinked  their  glasses,  and  exclaimed 

'  with  one  accord  (I  quote  him  exactly)  Vive  Beaucourt  !    He  p^°^5 

*  was  a  captain  in  the  National  Guard,  and  Cavaignac  his  general,  gardenen. 

*  Brave  Capitaine  Beaucourt !  said  Cavaignac,  you  must  receive 
'  a  decoration.  My  General,  said  Beaucourt,  No  !  It  is  enough 
'for  me  that  I  have  done  my  duty.    I  go  to  lay  the  first  stone 

*  of  a  house  upon  a  Property  I  have — that  house  shall  be  my 

*  decoration.  (Regard  that  house  !) '  Addition  to  the  picture 
came  in  a  letter  of  the  24th  of  July:  with  a  droll  glimpse  of 
Shakespeare  at  the  theatre,  and  of  the  Saturday's  pig-market. 

*  I  may  mention  that  the  great  Beaucourt  daily  changes  the 

*  orthography  of  this  place.    He  has  now  fixed  it,  by  having 

*  painted  up  outside  the  garden  gate,  "  Entree  particuli^re  de  la 

*  "  Villa  des  Moulineaux."    On  another  gate  a  little  higher  up,  he 

'  has  had  painted  "  Entre'e  des  Ecuries  de  la  Villa  des  Moulineaux."  pHd.-  in 

*  On  another  gate  a  little  lower  down  (applicable  to  one  of  the  Jl^irty."*' 
'  innumerable  buildings  in  the  garden),  "  Entre'e  du  Tom  Pouce." 

*  On  the  highest  gate  of  the  lot,  leading  to  his  own  house,  "  Entree 
'  "du  Chateau  Napoldonienne."  All  of  which  inscriptions  you 
'  will  behold  in  black  and  white  when  you  come.  I  see  little  of 
'  him  now,  as,  all  things  being  "  bien  arrange'es,"  he  is  delicate 

*  of  appearing.    His  wife  has  been  making  a  trip  in  the  country 

*  during  the  last  three  weeks,  but  (as  he  mentioned  to  me  with 

*  his  hat  in  his  hand)  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  remain  here. 


*  capital  dish  of  asparagus  costs  us 

*  about  fivepence  ;  a  fowl,  one  and 

*  threepence  ;  a  duck,  a  few  halfpence 

*  more  ;  a  dish  of  fish,  about  a  shil- 

*  ling.  The  very  best  wine  at  tenpence 


that  I  ever  drank — I  used  to  get  it 
very  good  for  the  same  money  in 
Genoa,  but  not  so  good.  The  com- 
mon people  very  engaging  and 
obliging.' 


1 82  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,   [^ook  Vli. 

Boulogne  :  *  to  be  Continually  at  the  disposition  of  the  tenant  of  the  Property. 
— —  '  (The  better  to  do  this,  he  has  had  roaring  dinner  parties  of 
*■  fifteen  daily;  and  the  old  woman  who  milks  the  cows  has  been 

*  fainting  up  the  hill  under  vast  burdens  of  champagne.) 

*  We  went  to  the  theatre  last  night,  to  see  the  Midsummer  Nighfs 

*  Dream — of  the  Opera  Comique.    It  is  a  beautiful  little  theatre 

*  now,  with  a  very  good  company ;  and  the  nonsense  of  the  piece 

*  was  done  with  a  sense  quite  confounding  in  that  connexion. 
'  Willy  Am  Shay  Kes  Peer ;  Sirzhon  Foil  Stayffe ;  Lor  Lattimeer ; 

*  and  that  celebrated  Maid  of  Honour  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  Meees 

*  Oleeveeir — were  the  principal  characters. 

SnrfoT  '  Outside  the  old  town,  an  army  of  workmen  are  (and  have 
the  Fair.      t  been  for  a  week  or  so,  already)  employed  upon  an  immense 

*  building  which  I  supposed  might  be  a  Fort,  or  a  Monastery,  or 

*  a  Barrack,  or  other  something  designed  to  last  for  ages.    I  find 

*  it  is  for  the  annual  fair,  which  begins  on  the  fifth  of  August 

*  and  lasts  a  fortnight.    Almost  every  Sunday  we  have  a  fete, 

*  where  there  is  dancing  in  the  open  air,  and  where  immense 

*  men  with  prodigious  beards  revolve  on  little  wooden  horses  like 

*  ItaHan  irons,  in  what  we  islanders  call  a  roundabout,  by  the 

*  hour  together.    But  really  the  good  humour  and  cheerfulness 

*  are  very  delightful.    Among  the  other  sights  of  the  place,  there 

*  is  a  pig-market  every  Saturday,  perfectly  insupportable  in  its 

*  absurdity.    An  excited  French  peasant,  male  or  female,  with  a 

*  determined  young  pig,  is  the  most  amazing  spectacle.  I  saw  a 
'  little  Drama  enacted  yesterday  week,  the  drollery  of  which  was 

Pictures      *  perfect.    Dram.  Fers.  i.  A  pretty  young  woman  with  short 

at  the  Pig-  ... 

market.       '  petticoats  and  trnn  blue  stockmgs,  ridmg  a  donkey  with  two 

*  baskets  and  a  pig  in  each.    2.  An  ancient  farmer  in  a  blouse, 

*  driving  four  pigs,  his  four  in  hand,  with  an  enormous  whip — 

*  and  being  drawn  against  walls  and  into  smoking  shops  by  any 

*  one  of  the  four.    3.  A  cart,  with  an  old  pig  (manacled)  looking 

*  out  of  it,  and  terrifying  six  hundred  and  fifty  young  pigs  in  the 

*  market  by  his  terrific  grunts.     4.  Collector  of  Octroi  in  an 

*  immense  cocked  hat,  with  a  stream  of  young  pigs  running, 

*  night  and   day,  between  his   miHtary  boots  and  rendering 

*  accounts  impossible.    5.  Inimitable,  confronted  by  a  radiation 


§  iv.j 


Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 


183 


*  of  elderly  pigs,  fastened  each  by  one  leg  to  a  bunch  of  stakes  Boulogne  : 
'  in  the  ground.     6.  John  Edmund  Reade,  poet,  expressing  

*  eternal  devotion  to  and  admiration  of  Landor,  unconscious  of 

*  approaching  pig  recently  escaped  from  barrow.     7.  Priests, 

*  peasants,  soldiers,  &c.  &c.' 

He  had  meanwhile  gathered  friendly  faces  round  him.  Frank 
Stone  went  over  with  his  family  to  a  house  taken  for  him  on  the 
St.  Omer  road  by  Dickens,  who  was  joined  in  the  chateau  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leech  and  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins.    '  Leech  says  that  English 

friends. 

'  when  he  stepped  from  the  boat  after  their  stormy  passage,  he 

*  was  received  by  the  congregated  spectators  with  a  distinct 
'  round  of  applause  as  by  far  the  most  intensely  and  unutterably 

*  miserable  looking  object  that  had  yet  appeared.    The  laughter 

*  was  tumultuous,  and  he  wishes  his  friends  to  know  that  alto- 

*  gether  he  made  an  immense  hit/  So  passed  the  summer 
months :  excursions  with  these  friends  to  Amiens  and  Beauvais 
relieving  the  work  upon  his  novel,  and  the  trip  to  Italy,  already 
described,  following  on  its  completion. 

In  June,  1854,  M.  Beaucourt  had  again  received  his  famous  June  1854 
tenant,  but  in  another  cottage  or  chateau  (to  him  convertible 
terms)  on  the  much  cherished  property,  placed  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  hill  with  a  private  road  leading  out  to  the  Column, 
a  really  pretty  place,  rooms  larger  than  in  the  other  house,  a 
noble  sea  view,  everywhere  nice  prospects,  good  garden,  and 
plenty  of  sloping  turf.*  It  was  called  the  Villa  du  Camp  de  y|]J^s«  o*" 
Droite,  and  here  Dickens  stayed,  as  I  have  intimated,  until  the 
eve  of  his  winter  residence  in  Paris. 

The  formation  of  the  Northern  Camp  at  Boulogne  began  the 
week  after  he  had  finished  Hard  Times,  and  he  watched  its 
progress,  as  it  increased  and  extended  itself  along  the  cliffs 
towards  Calais,  with  the  liveliest  amusement.    At  first  he  was 

*  Besides   the  old  friends  before  '  crockery  of  the  establishment.'  Our 

named,  Thackeray  and  his  family  were  friend  soon  tired  of  this,  going  off  to 

here  in  the  early  weeks,  living  '  in  a  Spa,  and  on  his  return,  after  ascend- 

*  melancholy  but  very  good  chateau  on  ing  the  hill  to  smoke  a  farewell  cigar 

*  the  Paris  road,  where  their  landlord    with  Dickens,  left  for  London  and 

*  (a  Baron)  has  supplied  them,  T.  tells     Scotland  in  October. 
'  me,  with  one  milk-jug  as  the  entire 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  Sfioo)/.  Vll. 


Mud-huts 
and  tents. 


Boulogne  :  Startled  bv  the  suddcnness  with  which  soldiers  overran  the  roads, 

1854.  .         .  . 
 became  billeted  in  every  house,  made  the  bridges  red  with  their 

Northern  ,  '        .  ^ 

Camp.  trowsers,  and  *  sprang  upon  the  pier  like  fantastic  mustard  and 
'  cress  when  boats  were  expected,  many  of  them  never  having 
'  seen  the  sea  before/  But  the  good  behaviour  of  the  men  had 
a  reconciling  effect,  and  their  ingenuity  delighted  him.  The 
quickness  with  which  they  raised  whole  streets  of  mud-huts,  less 
picturesque  than  the  tents,*  but  (like  most  unpicturesque  things) 
more  comfortable,  was  like  an  Arabian  Nights'  tale.    *  Each  little 

*  street  holds  144  men,  and  every  corner-door  has  the  number  of 

*  the  street  upon  it  as  soon  as  it  is  put  up ;  and  the  postmen  can 
'  fall  to  work  as  easily  as  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  at  Paris.'  His 
patience  was  again  a  little  tried  when  he  found  baggage- wagons 
ploughing  up  his  favourite  walks,  and  trumpeters  in  twos  and 
threes  teaching  newly-recruited  trumpeters  in  all  the  sylvan 
places,  and  making  the  echoes  hideous.  But  this  had  its  amuse- 
ment too.  '  I  met  to-day  a  weazen  sun-burnt  youth  from  the 
'  south  with  such  an  immense  regimental  shako  on,  that  he  looked 
*■  like  a  sort  of  lucifer  match-box,  evidently  blowing  his  life  rapidly 

*  out,  under  the  auspices  of  two  magnificent  creatures  all  hair  and 

*  lungs,  of  such  breadth  across  the  shoulders  that  I  couldn't  see 

*  their  breast-buttons  when  I  stood  in  front  of  them.' 
The  interest  culminated  as  the  visit  of  the  Prince  Consort 

approached  with  its  attendant  glories  of  illuminations  and  reviews. 
Beaucourt's  excitement  became  intense.  The  Villa  du  Camp 
de  Droite  was  to  be  a  blaze  of  triumph  on  the  night  of  the 
arrival ;  Dickens,  who  had  carried  over  with  him  the  meteor  flag 
of  England  and  set  it  streaming  over  a  haystack  in  his  field,f  now 
hoisted  the  French  colours  over  the  British  Jack  in  honour  of 
the  national  alliance ;  the  Emperor  was  to  subside  to  the  station 
of  a  general  officer,  so  that  all  the  rejoicings  should  be  in  honour 
of  the  Prince ;  and  there  was  to  be  a  review  in  the  open  country 
near  Wimereux,  when  *  at  one  stage  of  the  maneuvres  (I  am  too 


Visit  of 

Prince 

AlberU 


*  Another  of  his  letters  questioned 
even  the  picturesqueness  a  little,  for  he 
discovered  that  on  a  sunny  day  the 
white  tents,  seen  from  a  distance, 
looked  exactly  like  an  immense  wash- 


ing establishment  with  all  the  linen 
put  out  to  dry. 

f  *  Whence  it  can  be  seen  for  miles 
*  and  miles,  to  the  glory  of  England 
'  and  the  joy  of  Beaucourt,* 


§  IV.] 


Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 


185 


'  excited  to  spell  the  word  but  you  know  what  I  mean)'  the  whole  Boulognk: 

hundred  thousand  men  in  the  camp  of  the  North  were  to  be 

placed  before  the  Prince's  eyes,  to  show  him  what  a  division  of 

the  French  army  might  be.    '  I  believe  everything  I  hear,'  said 

Dickens.    It  was  the  state  of  mind  of  Hood's  country  gentleman 

after  the  fire  at  the  Houses  of  Parliament.    '  Beaucourt,  as  one  Beaucoun's 

*  of  the  town  council,  receives  summonses  to  turn  out  and  debate 

*  about  something,  or  receive  somebody,  every  five  minutes. 

*  Whenever  I  look  out  of  window,  or  go  to  the  door,  I  see 

*  an  immense  black  object  at  Beaucourt's  porch  like  a  boat  set 

*  up  on  end  in  the  air  with  a  pair  of  white  trowsers  below  it. 

*  This  is  the  cocked  hat  of  an  official  Huissier,  newly  arrived  with 

*  a  summons,  whose  head  is  thrown  back  as  he  is  in  the  act  ot 

*  drinking  Beaucourt's  wine.'  The  day  came  at  last,  and  all 
Boulogne  turned  out  for  its  holiday;  'but  I'  Dickens  wrote, 

*  had  by  this  cooled  down  a  little,  and,  reserving  myself  for  the 

*  illuminations,  I  abandoned  the  great  men  and  set  off  upon  my 
'  usual  country  walk.    See  my  reward.    Coming  home  by  the 

*  Calais  road,  covered  with  dust,  I  suddenly  find  myself  face  to  Meeting 

*  face  with  Albert  and  Napoleon,  jogging  along  in  the  pleasantest  ^'^^ 

*  way,  a  little  in  front,  talking  extremely  loud  about  the  view, 

*  and  attended  by  a  brilliant  staff  of  some  sixty  or  seventy  horse- 

*  men,  with  a  couple  of  our  royal  grooms  with  their  red  coats 

*  riding  oddly  enough  in  the  midst  of  the  magnates.    I  took  off 

*  my  wide-awake  without  stopping  to  stare,  whereupon  the  Emperor, 
'  Emperor  pulled  off  his  cocked  hat ;  and  Albert  (seeing,  I  sup-  dTcSs!" 

*  pose,  that  it  was  an  Englishman)  pulled  off  his.    Then  we  went 

*  our  several  ways.    The  Emperor  is  broader  across  the  chest 

*  than  in  the  old  times  when  we  used  to  see  him  so  often  at 

*  Gore-House,  and  stoops  more  in  the  shoulders.    Indeed  his 

*  carriage  thereabouts  is  Uke  Fonblanque's.'  *     The  town  he 

*  The  picture  had  changed  drearily  '  horseback,  as  I  was  coming  in  at 

in  less  than  a  year  and  a  half,  when  '  the  door  on  Friilay,  and  I  never  saw 

(17th  of  Feb.   1856)  Dickens  thus  *  so  haggard  a  face.    Some  Plnglish 

wrote  from  Paris.    *  I  suppose  mortal  '  saluted  him,  and  he  lifted  his  hand 

*  man  out  of  bed  never  looked  so  ill  *  to  his  hat  as  slowly,  painfully,  and 
'  and  worn  as  the  Emperor  does  just  '  laboriously,  as  if  his  arm  were  made 

*  now.    He  passed  close  by  me  on  '  of  lead.  1  think  he  must  be  in  pain,' 


1 86  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,   [Book  VII. 

Bo'JLOGNE :  described  as  '  one  great  flag '  for  the  rest  of  the  visit ;  and  to 
the  success  of  the  illuminations  he  contributed  largely  himself 
by  leading  off  splendidly  with  a  hundred  and  twenty  wax 
candles  blazing  in  his  seventeen  front  windows,  and  visible  from 
that  great  height  over  all  the  place.  *  On  the  first  eruption 
'  Beaucourt  danced  and  screamed  on  the  grass  before  the  door , 

*  and  when  he  was  more  composed,  set  off  with  Madame  Beau- 

*  court  to  look  at  the  house  from  every  possible  quarter,  and,  he 

*  said,  collect  the  suffrages  of  his  compatriots.' 

Their  suffrages  seem  to  have  gone,  however,  mainly  in  another 
direction.    *  It  was  wonderful/  Dickens  wrote,  '  to  behold  about 

*  the  streets  the  small  French  soldiers  of  the  line  seizing  our 

*  Guards  by  the  hand  and  embracing  them.    It  was  wonderful, 

*  too,  to  behold  the  English  sailors  in  the  town,  shaking  hands 
'  with  everybody  and  generally  patronizing  everything.  When 

an?E^gHsh  '       pcoplc  could  not  get  hold  of  either  a  soldier  or  a  sailor, 
cheers.       i        rcjoiccd  in  the  royal  grooms,  and  embraced  them.    I  don't 
'  think  the  Boulogne  people  were  surprised  by  anything  so  much, 

*  as  by  the  three  cheers  the  crew  of  the  yacht  gave  when  the 

*  Emperor  went  aboard  to  lunch.     The  prodigious  volume  of 

*  them,  and  the  precision,  and  the  circumstance  that  no  man  was 

*  left  straggling  on  his  own  account  either  before  or  afterwards, 

*  seemed  to  strike  the  general  mind  with  amazement.  Beaucourt 

*  said  it  was  like  boxing.'  That  was  written  on  the  loth  of 
September ;  but  in  a  very  few  days  Dickens  was  unwillingly  con- 
vinced that  whatever  the  friendly  disposition  to  England  might 
be,  the  war  with  Russia  was  decidedly  unpopular.  He  was 
present  when  the  false  report  of  the  taking  of  Sebastopol  reached 
the  Emperor  and  Empress.  '  I  was  at  the  Review '  (8th  of 
October)  *  yesterday  week,  very  near  the  Emperor  and  Empress, 

*  when  the  taking  of  Sebastopol  was  announced.  It  was  a 
Stipposed  <  magnificent  show  on  a  magnificent  day ;  and  if  any  circum- 
SebastopoL   <  stance  could  make  it  special,  the  arrival  of  the  telegraphic 

*  despatch  would  be  the  culminating  point  one  might  suppose. 

*  It  quite  disturbed  and  mortified  me  to  find  how  faintly,  feebly, 

*  miserably,  the  men  responded  to  the  call  of  the  officers  to  cheer, 

*  as  each  regiment  passed  by.    Fifty  excited  Englishmen  would 


§IV.] 


Three  Summers  at  BoiUogne, 


187 


*  make  a  greater  sign  and  sound  than  a  thousand  of  these  men  Boulognb  ; 

*  do.  .  .  The  Empress  was  very  pretty,  and  her  slight  figure  sat 

*  capitally  on  her  grey  horse.    When  the  Emperor  gave  her  the 

*  despatch  to  read,  she  flushed  and  fired  up  in  a  very  pleasant 

*  way,  and  kissed  it  with  as  natural  an  impulse  as  one  could  desire 

*  to  see.' 

On  the  night  of  that  day  Dickens  went  up  to  see  a  play  acted  '° 
at  a  cafe  at  the  camp,  and  found  himself  one  of  an  audience 
composed  wholly  of  officers  and  men,  with  only  four  ladies  among 
them,  officers*  wives.    The  steady,  working,  sensible  faces  all 
about  him  told  their  own  story ;  *  and  as  to  kindness  and  con- 

*  sideration  towards  the  poor  actors,  it  was  real  benevolence.' 
Another  attraction  at  the  camp  was  a  conjuror,  who  had  been 
called  to  exhibit  twice  before  the  imperial  party,  and  whom 
Dickens  always  afterwards  referred  to  as  the  most  consummate  French 

conjuror. 

master  of  legerdemain  he  had  seen.  Nor  was  he  a  mean  authority 
as  to  this,  being  himself,  with  his  tools  at  hand,  a  capital 
conjuror ;  *  but  the  Frenchman  scorned  help,  stood  among  the 


*  I  permit  myself  to  quote  from  the 
bill  of  one  of  his  entertainments  in  the 
old  merry  days  at  Bonchurch  (ante, 
64),  of  course  drawn  up  by  himself, 
whom  it  describes  as  '  The  Unparal- 
Meled  Necromancer  Rhia  Rhama 

•  Rhoos,  educated  cabalistically  in  the 

•  Orange  Groves  of  Salamanca  and 

•  the  Ocean  Caves  of  Alum  Bay,' 
some  of  whose  proposed  wonders  it 
thus  prefigures  : 

THE  LEAPING  CARD  WONDER. 

Two  Cards  being  drawn  from  the  Pack  by 
two  of  the  company,  and  placed,  with  the 
Pack,  in  the  Necromancer's  box,  will  leap 
forth  at  the  command  of  any  lady  of  not 
less  than  eight,  nor  more  than  eighty,  years 
of  age. 

This  wonder  is  the  result  0/  nine 
years'  seclusion  in  tite  mines  0/  R  ussia. 

THE  PYRAMID  WONDER. 

A  shilling  being  lent  to  the  Necromancer 
by  any  gentleman  of  not  less  than  twelve 
months,  or  more  than  one  hundred  years,  of 
age,  and  carefully  marked  by  the  said  gen- 
tleman, will  disappear  from  within  a  brazen 


box  at  the  word  of  command,  and  pass  Conjuring 
through  the  hearts  of  an  infinity  of  boxes,  by  Dickens, 
which  will  afterwards  build  themselves  into 
pyramids  and  sink  into  a  small  mahogany 
box,  at  the  Necromancer's  bidding. 

*♦*  Five  thousand  guineas  were  paid  /or 
the  acquisition  0/  this  wonder,  to  a  Chinese 
Mandarin,  who  died  0/  grief  immediately 
after  parting  with  the  secret. 

THE  CONFLAGRATION  WONDER. 

A  Card  being  drawn  from  the  Pack  by  any 
lady,  not  under  a  direct  and  positive  promise 
of  marriage,  will  be  immediately  named  by 
the  Necromancer,  destroyed  by  fire,  and  re- 
produced from  its  own  ashes. 

•»*  An  annuity  of  one  thousand  pauwis 
has  been  offered  to  the  Necromancer  by  the 
Directors  of  the  Sun  Fire  Office  for  the 
secret  of  this  wonder — and  refused  !  ■' ! 

THE  LOAF  OF  BREAD  WONDER. 

The  watch  of  any  truly  prepossessing  lady, 
of  any  age,  single  or  married,  being  locked 
by  the  Necromancer  in  a  strong  box,  will  fly 
at  the  word  of  command  from  within  that 
box  into  the  heart  of  an  ordinary  half- 
quartern  loaf,  whence  it  shall  be  cut  out  in 
the  prcbcncc  of  the  wiioie  company,  whoso 


i88 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Perfect 
legerde- 


BouI'Ogne:  company  without  any  sort  of  apparatus,  and,  by  the  mere  force  of 

  sleight  of  hand  and  an  astonishing  memory,  performed  feats 

having  no  likeness  to  anything  Dickens  had  ever  seen  done,  and 
totally  inexplicable  to  his  most  vigilant  reflection.    '  So  far  as  I 

*  know,  a  perfectly  original  genius,  and  that  puts  any  sort  of 

*  knowledge  of  legerdemain,  such  as  I  supposed  that  I  possessed, 

*  at  utter  defiance.'  The  account  he  gave  dealt  with  two  exploits 
only,  the  easiest  to  describe,  and,  not  being  with  cards,  not  the 
most  remarkable ;  for  he  would  also  say  of  this  Frenchman  that 
he  transformed  cards  into  very  demons.  He  never  saw  a  human 
hand  touch  them  in  the  same  way,  fling  them  about  so  amazingly, 
or  change  them  in  his,  one's  own,  or  another's  hand,  with  a  skill 
so  impossible  to  follow. 

*  You  are  to  observe  that  he  was  with  the  company,  not  in  the 
'  least  removed  from  them ;  and  that  we  occupied  the  front  row. 

*  He  brought  in  some  writing  paper  with  him  when  he  entered, 

*  and  a  black-lead  pencil ;  and  he  wrote  some  words  on  half- 

*  sheets  of  paper.    One  of  these  half- sheets  he  folded  into  two, 

*  and  gave  to  Catherine  to  hold.    Madame,  he  says  aloud,  will 

*  you  think  of  any  class  of  objects?    I  have  done  so. — Of  what 
Examples.    *  class,  Madame  ?    Animals. — Will  you  think  of  a  particular 

*  animal,  Madame  ?    I  have  done  so. — Of  what  animal  ?  The 

*  Lion. — Will  you  think  of  another  class  of  objects,  Madame  ?  I 

*  have   done   so. — Of  what  class  ?     Flowers. — The  particular 

*  flower  ?    The  Rose. — Will  you  open  the  paper  you  hold  in 


cries  of  astonishment  will  be  audible  at  a 
distance  of  some  miles. 

Ten  years  in  the  Plains  of  Tartary 
were  devoted  to  th^:  study  of  this  wonder. 

THE  TRAVELLING  DOLL  WONDER. 

The  travelling  doll  is  composed  of  solid 
wood  throughout,  but,  by  putting  on  a  travel- 
ling dress  of  the  simplest  construction,  be- 
comes invisible,  performs  enormous  journeys 
in  half  a  minute,  and  passes  from  visibility  to 
invisibility  with  an  expedition  so  astonishing 
that  no  eye  can  follow  its  transformations. 

The  Necromancer's  attendant  usually 
/aints  on  beholding  this  wonder,  and  is  only 
to  be  revived  by  the  administration  of  brandy 
and  water. 

THE  PUDDING  WONDER. 

The  company  having  agreed  among  them- 


selves to  ofifer  to  the  Necromancer,  by  way 
of  loan,  the  hat  of  any  gentleman  whose 
head  has  arrived  at  maturity  of  size,  the 
Necromancer,  without  removing  that  hat  for 
an  instant  from  before  the  eyes  of  the  de- 
lighted company,  will  light  a  fire  in  it,  make 
a  plum-pudding  in  his  magic  saucepan,  boil 
it  over  the  said  fire,  produce  it  m  two 
minutes,  thoroughly  done,  cut  it,  and  dis- 
pense it  in  portions  to  the  whole  company, 
for  their  consumption  then  and  there  ;  re- 
turning the  hat  at  last,  wholly  uninjured  by 
fire,  to  its  lawful  owner. 

The  extreme  liberality  of  this  wonder 
awakening  the  jealousy  of  the  beneficent 
Austrian  Government,  when  exhibited  in 
Milafi,  the  Necromancer  had  t/ie  honour  to 
be  seized,  and  confined  for  five  years  in  th* 
fortress  of  tfiat  city. 


§  IV.] 


Th^^ee  Siimmers  at  Boulogne, 


189 


*  your  hand  ?    She  opened  it,  and  there  was  neatly  and  plainly  ^"^g^'*^  •' 

*  wTitten  in  pencil — The  Lion.    The  Rose.    Nothing  whatever  —  

*  had  led  up  to  these  words,  and  they  were  the  most  distant  con- 

*  ceivable  from  Catherine's  thoughts  when  she  entered  the  room. 

*  He  had  several  common  school-slates  about  a  foot  square.  He 

*  took  one  of  these  to  a  field-officer  from  the  camp,  decore  and 

*  what  not,  who  sat  about  six  from  us,  with  a  grave  saturnine 

*  friend  next  him.    My  General,  says  he,  will  you  write  a  name 

*  on  this  slate,  after  your  friend  has  done  so  ?    Don't  show  it  to 

*  me.    The  friend  wrote  a  name,  and  the  General  wrote  a  name. 

*  The  conjuror  took  the  slate  rapidly  from  the  officer,  threw  it 

*  violently  down  on  the  ground  with  its  written  side  to  the  floor 

*  and  asked  the  officer  to  put  his  foot  upon  it  and  keep  it  there  ; 

*  which  he  did.    The  conjuror  considered  for  about  a  minute, 

*  looking  devilish  hard  at  the  General. — My  General,  says  he, 

*  your  friend  wrote  Dagobert,  upon  the  slate  under  your  foot 
'  The  friend  admits  it. — And  you,  my  General,  wrote  Nicholas. 

*  General  admits  it,  and  everybody  laughs  and  applauds. — My  conjuror 

*  General,  will  you  excuse  me,  if  I  change  that  name  into  a  name  Ei^'i'andT'* 

*  expressive  of  the  power  of  a  great  nation,  which,  in  happy 

*  alliance  with  the  gallantry  and  spirit  of  France  will  shake  that 

*  name  to  its  centre  ?    Certainly  I  will  excuse  it. — My  General, 

*  take  up  the  slate  and  read.     General  reads :  Dagobert, 

*  Victoria.    The  first  in  his  friend's  writing ;  the  second  in  a 

*  new  hand.    I  never  saw  anything  in  the  least  like  this  ;  or  at 

*  all  approaching  to  the  absolute  certainty,  the  familiarity,  quick- 

*  ness,  absence  of  all  machinery,  and  actual  face-to-face,  hand-to- 
'  hand  fairness  between  the  conjuror  and  the  audience,  with 

*  which  it  was  done.    I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the  secret. 

*  — One  more.    He  was  blinded  with  several  table  napkins,  and 

*  then  a  great  cloth  was  bodily  thrown  over  them  and  his  head 

*  too,  so  that  his  voice  sounded  as  if  he  were  under  a  bed. 
'  Perhaps  half  a  dozen  dates  were  written  on  a  slate.    He  takes 

*  the  slate  in  his  hand,  and  throws  it  violently  down  on  the  floor, 

*  as  before,  remains  silent  a  minute,  seems  to  become  agitated, 

*  and  bursts  out  thus  :  "  What  is  this  I  see  ?    A  great  city,  but  of 

*  narrow  streets  and  old-fashioned  houses,  many  of  which  are  of 


I90 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Boulogne  :  '  "  wood,  rcsolving  itself  into  rums  !  How  is  it  falling  into  ruins  ? 
— —    —  '  "  Hark  !    I  hear  the  crackling  of  a  great  conflagration,  and, 

and  sees  o  o  o  »  j 

London  in    *  « looking  Up,  I  bchold  a  vast  cloud  of  flame  and  smoke.  The 

*  "  ground  is  covered  with  hot  cinders  too,  and  people  are  flying 

*  into  the  fields  and  endeavouring  to  save  their  goods.  This 

*  "  great  fire,  this  great  wind,  this  roaring  noise !    This  is  the 

*  "  great  fire  of  London,  and  the  first  date  upon  the  slate  must  be 

*  "one,  six,  six,  six — the  year  in  which  it  happened  ! "    And  so  on 

*  with  all  the  other  dates.  There  !  Now,  if  you  will  take  a  cab 
'  and  impart  these  mysteries  to  Rogers,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 

*  have  his  opinion  of  them.'  Rogers  had  taxed  our  credulity  with 
some  wonderful  clairvoyant  experiences  of  his  own  in  Paris,  to 
which  here  was  a  parallel  at  last ! 

Jure  1856.      When  leaving  Paris  for  his  third  visit  to  Boulogne,  at  the 
beginning  of  June  1856,  he  had  not  written  a  word  of  the  ninth 
number  of  his  new  book,  and  did  not  expect  for  another  month  to 
'  see  land  from  the  running  sea  of  Little  Dorrit'   He  had  resumed 
Old  cottage  the  house  he  first  occupied,  the  cottage  or  villa  '  des  Moulineaux/ 

resumed. 

and  after  dawdling  about  his  garden  for  a  few  days  with  surprising 
industry  in  a  French  farmer  garb  of  blue  blouse,  leathern  belt, 
and  military  cap,  which  he  had  mounted  as  'the  only  one  for 

*  complete  comfort,'  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  was  getting  '  Now  to 

*  work  again — to  work  !    The  story  lies  before  me,  I  hope,  strong 

*  and  clear.    Not  to  be  easily  told  ;  but  nothing  of  that  sort  is  to 

*  be  easily  done  that  /  know  of.'  At  work  it  became  his  habit 
to  sit  late,  and  then,  putting  ofl"  his  usual  walk  until  night,  to  lie 
down  among  the  roses  reading  until  after  tea  (*  middle-aged  Love 

*  in  a  blouse  and  belt '),  when  he  went  down  to  the  pier.  *  The 
The  Pier  at  *  said  pier  at  evening  is  a  phase  of  the  place  we  never  see,  and 
evening.      ^  ^hi^h  I  hardly  knew.    But  I  never  did  behold  such  specimens 

*  of  the  youth  of  my  country,  male  and  female,  as  pervade  that 

*  place.    They  are  really,  in  their  vulgarity  and  insolence,  quite 

*  disheartening.    One  is  so  fearfully  ashamed  of  them,  and  they 

*  contrast  so  very  unfavourably  with  the  natives.'  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins  was  again  his  companion  in  the  summer  weeks,  and  the 
presence  of  Jerrold  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  added  much  to 
his  enjoyment. 


§iv.] 


Three  Summers  at  Boiilogne. 


lOI 


The  last  of  the  camp  was  now  at  hand.  It  had  only  a  battalion  Boulogne  : 
of  men  in  it,  and  a  few  days  would  see  them  out.    At  first  there  

.  .       ,  Last  of  the 

was  homble  weather,  *  storms  of  wind,  rushes  of  ram,  heavy  Camp. 
*■  squalls,  cold  airs,  sea  fogs,  banging  shutters,  flapping  doors,  and 

*  beaten  down  rose-trees  by  the  hundred ; '  but  then  came  a 
delightful  week  among  the  com  fields  and  bean  fields,  and  after- 
wards the  end.  '  It  looks  very  singular  and  very  miserable. 
'  The  soil  being  sand,  and  the  grass  having  been  trodden  away 
'  these  two  years,  the  wind  from  the  sea  carries  the  sand  into  the 

*  chinks  and  ledges  of  all  the  doors  and  windows,  and  chokes 
them  ; — just  as  if  they  belonged  to  Arab  huts  in  the  desert.  A 

*  number  of  the  non-commissioned  officers  made  turf-couches  out- 
'  side  their  huts,  and  there  were  turf  orchestras  for  the  bands  to 
'  play  in ;  all  of  which  are  fast  getting  sanded  over  in  a  most 
'  Egyptian  manner.    The  Fair  is  on,  under  the  walls  of  the  haute 

*  ville  over  the  way.  At  one  popular  show,  the  Malakhoff  is 
'  taken  every  half-hour  between  4  and  11.    Bouncing  explosions 

*  announce  every  triumph  of  the  French  arms  (the  English  have 
'  nothing  to  do  with  it)  ;  and  in  the  intervals  a  man  outside  blows 

*  a  railway  whistle — straight  into  the  dining-room.    Do  you  know 

*  that  the  French  soldiers  call  their  Enerlish  medal  "  The  Salvasfe  oid 

°  gnulges 

'  "  Medal " — meaning  that  they  got  it  for  saving  the  English 

*  army  ?    I  don't  suppose  there  are  a  thousand  people  in  all 

*  France  who  believe  that  we  did  anything  but  get  rescued  by  the 

*  French.    And  I  am  confident  that  the  no-result  of  our  precious 

*  Chelsea  enquiry  has  wonderfully  strengthened  this  conviction. 

*  Nobody  at  home  has  yet  any  adequate  idea,  I  am  deplorably 
'  sure,  of  what  the  Barnacles  and  the  Circumlocution  Office  have 
'  done  for  us.    But  whenever  we  get  into  war  again,  the  people 

*  will  begin  to  find  out.' 

His  own  household  had  ffot  into  a  small  war  already,  of  which  a  hou«s 

^  hold  war. 

the  commander-in-chief  was  his  man-servant  '  French,'  the  bulk  of 
the  forces  engaged  being  his  children,  and  the  invaders  two  cats. 
Business  brought  him  to  London  on  the  hostilities  breaking  out, 
and  on  his  return  after  a  few  days  the  story  of  the  war  was  told. 

*  Dick,'  it  should  be  said,  was  a  canary  very  dear  both  to  Dickens 
and  his  eldest  daughter,  who  had  so  tamed  to  her  loving  hand  its 


192 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


^°i8°(?^^'  ^^^^  ^^'^^^  heart  that  it  was  become  the  most  docile  of  com- 
'  panions.*    'The  only  thing  new  in  this  garden  is  that  war  is 

*  raging  against  two  particularly  tigerish  and  fearful  cats  (from  the 

*  mill,  I  suppose),  which  are  always  glaring  in  dark  comers,  after 
•Dick 'in    'our  wonderful  little  Dick.    Keeping  the  house  open  at  all 

danger.  .  ... 

*  pomts,  it  is  impossible  to  shut  them  out,  and  they  hide  them- 

*  selves  in  the  most  terrific  manner :  hanging  themselves  up 
'  behind  draperies,  like  bats,  and  tumbling  out  in  the  dead  of 

*  night  with  frightful  caterwaulings.  Hereupon  French  borrows 
'  Beaucourt's  gun,  loads  the  same  to  the  muzzle,  discharges  it 

*  twice  in  vain  and  throws  himself  over  with  the  recoil,  exactly 

*  like  a  clown.  But  at  last  (while  I  was  in  town)  he  aims  at  the 
'  more  amiable  cat  of  the  two,  and  shoots  that  animal  dead. 

*  Insufferably  elated  by  this  victory,  he  is  now  engaged  from 

*  morning  to  night  in  hiding  behind  bushes  to  get  aim  at  the 
'  other.    He  does  nothing  else  whatever.    All  the  boys  encourage 

*  him  and  watch  for  the  enemy — on  whose  appearance  they  give 

*  an  alarm  which  immediately  serves  as  a  warning  to  the  creature, 
Household    '  who  runs  away.    They  are  at  this  moment  (ready  dressed  for 

troops.  ,  .  .  . 

*  church)  all  lymg  on  their  stomachs  m  various  parts  of  the  garden. 

*  Horrible  whistles  give  notice  to  the  gun  what  point  it  is  to 

*  approach.     I  am  afraid  to  go  out,  lest  I  should  be  shot. 

*  Mr.  Plornish  says  his  prayers  at  night  in  a  whisper,  lest  the  cat 

*  should  overhear  him  and  take  offence.    The  tradesmen  cry  out 
State  of      *  as  they  come  up  the  avenue,  ''  Me  voici !  C'est  moi — boulanger 

*  — ne  tirez  pas.  Monsieur  Franche  !  "    It  is  like  Hving  in  a  state 

*  of  siege  ;  and  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  the  cat  preserves 

*  the  character  of  being  the  only  person  not  much  put  out  by  the 

*  intensity  of  this  monomania,  is  most  ridiculous.'  (6th  of  July.) 

*  •  •  '  About  four  pounds  of  powder  and  half  a  ton  of  shot  have 

*  been'  (13th  of  July)  *  fired  off  at  the  cat  (and  the  public  in  general) 
'  during  the  week.  The  finest  thing  is  that  immediately  after  I 
'  have  heard  the  noble  sportsman  blazing  away  at  her  in  the 

*  garden  in  front,  I  look  out  of  my  room  door  into  the  drawing- 

*  room,  and  am  pretty  sure  to  see  her  coming  in  after  the  birds,  in 


siege. 


*  Dick  died  at  Gadshill  in  1866,  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age,  and  was 
honoured  with  a  sniall  tonib  and  epitaph. 


§  IV.]  Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 


193 


*  the  calmest  manner,  by  the  back  window.    Intelligence  has  Boulogne: 

*  been  brought  to  me  from  a  source  on  which  I  can  rely,  that  ^  

*  French  has  newly  conceived  the  atrocious  project  of  tempting 

*  her  into  the  coach-house  by  meat  and  kindness,  and  there,  from 
'  an  elevated  portmanteau,  blowing  her  head  off.  This  I  mean 
'  sternly  to  interdict,  and  to  do  so  to-day  as  a  work  of  piety.' 

Besides  the  graver  work  which  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  himself  j^r^hSf. 
were  busy  with,  in  these  months,  and  by  which  Household  Words 
mainly  was  to  profit,  some  lighter  matters  occupied  the  leisure 
of  both.  There  were  to  be,  at  Christmas,  theatricals  again  at 
Tavistock  House ;  in  which  the  children,  with  the  help  of  their 
father  and  other  friends,  were  to  follow  up  the  success  of  the 
Lighthouse  by  again  acquitting  themselves  as  grown-up  actors  ; 
and  Mr.  Collins  was  busy  preparing  for  them  a  new  drama  to  be 
called  The  Frozen  Deep^  while  Dickens  was  sketching  a  farce  for 
Mr.  Lemon  to  fill  in.  But  this  pleasant  employment  had  sudden 
and  sad  interruption. 

An  epidemic  broke  out  in  the  town,  affecting  the  children  ol' 
several  families  known  to  Dickens,  among  them  that  of  his 
friend  Mr.  Gilbert  A'Becket ;  who,  upon  arriving  from  Paris,  and 
finding  a  favourite  little  son  stricken  dangerously,  sank  himself 
under  an  illness  from  which  he  had  been  suffering,  and  died  two 
days  after  the  boy.    *  He  had  for  three  days  shown  symptoms  of  Gilbert 

*  rallying,  and  we  had  some  hope  of  his  recovery;  but  he  sank  deSu'^*^" 

*  and  died,  and  never  even  knew  that  the  child  had  gone  before 

*  him.  A  sad,  sad  story.'  Dickens  meanwhile  had  sent  his  own 
children  home  with  his  wife,  and  the  rest  soon  followed.  Poor 
M.  Beaucourt  was  inconsolable.    *  The  desolation  of  the  place  is 

*  wretched.  When  Mamey  and  Katey  went,  Beaucourt  came  in 
'  and  wept.    He  really  is  almost  broken-hearted  about  it  He 

*  had  planted  all  manner  of  flowers  for  next  month,  and  has 

*  thrown  down  the  spade  and  left  off  weeding  the  garden,  so  that 
'  it  looks  something  like  a  dreary  bird-cage  with  all  manner  of 

*  grasses  and  chickweeds  sticking  through  the  bars  and  lying  in 

*  the  sand.      Such  a  loss  too,"  he  says,  "  for  Monsieur  Dickens  ! "  m.  Beau- 

*  Then  he  looks  in  at  the  kitchen  window  (which  seems  to  be  his  grief  and 

goodnes& 

*  only  relief),  and  sighs  himself  up  the  hill  home.' 

VOL.  II.  Q 


194 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  Vil. 


Bouloonk:     Another  word  is  to  be  said  of  this  excellent  man.  The 
1856. 

  most  touching  traits  recorded  of  him  by  Dickens  have  not 

had  mention  here,  because  they  refer  to  the  generosity  shown 
by  him  to  an  English  family  in  occupation  of  another  of  his 
houses,  in  connection  with  whom  his  losses  must  have  been 
considerable,  but  for  whom  he  had  nothing  but  help  and  sym- 
pathy. Replying  to  some  questions  about  them,  put  by  Dickens 
one  day,  he  had  only  enlarged  on  their  sacrifices  and  self-denials. 
'  Ah  that  family,  unfortunate !  "  And  you,  Monsieur  Beau- 
'  "  court,"  I  said  to  him,  "  you  are  unfortunate  too,  God  knows  ! " 
'  Upon  which  he  said  in  the  pleasantest  way  in  the  world.  Ah, 
'  Monsieur  Dickens,  thank  you,  don't  speak  of  it ! — And  backed 
'  himself  down  the  avenue  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  as  if  he 
*  were  going  to  back  himself  straight  into  the  evening  star, 
'  without  the  ceremony  of  dying  first.  I  never  did  see  such  a 
'  gentle,  kind  heart.'  The  interval  of  residence  in  Paris  between 
these  two  last  visits  to  Boulogne  is  now  to  be  described. 


V. 

RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS. 
1855—1856. 

Paris  In  Paris  Dickens's  life  was  passed  among  artists,  and  in  the 
'^^^  '  exercise  of  his  own  art.  His  associates  were  writers,  painters, 
actors,  or  musicians,  and  when  he  wanted  relief  from  any  strain 
of  work  he  found  it  at  the  theatre.  The  years  since  his  last 
residence  in  the  great  city  had  made  him  better  known,  and  the 
increased  attentions  pleased  him.  He  had  to  help  in  preparing 
for  a  translation  of  his  books  into  French ;  and  this,  with  con- 
tinued labour  at  the  story  he  had  in  hand,  occupied  him  as  long 
as  he  remained.  It  will  be  all  best  told  by  extracts  from  his 
letters ;  in  which  the  people  he  met,  the  theatres  he  visited,  and 
the  incidents,  pubHc  or  private,  that  seemed  to  him  worthy  of 
mention,  reappear  with  the  old  force  and  liveliness. 


Residence  in  Paris. 


195 


Nor  is  anything  better  worth  preserving  from  them  than  choice    Paris  : 

1855-6. 

bits  of  description  of  an  actor  or  a  drama,  for  this  perishable  ^^rsTnd^ 
enjoyment  has  only  so  much  as  may  survive  out  of  such  recol-  dramas, 
lections  to  witness  for  itself  to  another  generation;  and  an 
unusually  high  place  may  be  challenged  for  the  subtlety  and 
dehcacy  of  what  is  said  in  these  letters  of  things  theatrical,  when 
the  writer  was  especially  attracted  by  a  performer  or  a  play. 
Frederic  Lemaitre  has  never  had  a  higher  tribute  than  Dickens 
paid  to  him  during  his  few  days'  earlier  stay  at  Paris  {antcy  176)  in 
the  spring. 

*  Incomparably  the  finest  acting  I  ever  saw,  I  saw  last  night  at 

*  the  Ambigu.   They  have  revived  that  old  piece,  once  immensely 

*  popular  in  London  under  the  name  of  Thirty  Years  of  a 

*  Gambler's  Life.    Old  Lemaitre  plays  his  famous  character,*  and 

*  never  did  I  see  anything,  in  art,  so  exaltedly  horrible  and  awful. 

*  In  the  earlier  acts  he  was  so  well  made  up,  and  so  light  and 

*  active,  that  he  really  looked  sufficiently  young.     But  in  the 

*  last  two,  when  he  had  grown  old  and  miserable,  he  did  the  Criticism  of 

Frederic 

*  finest  things,  I  really  believe,  that  are  withm  the  power  of  acting.  Lemaitre. 

*  Two  or  three  times,  a  great  cry  of  horror  went  all  round  the 
'  house.    When  he  met,  in  the  inn  yard,  the  traveller  whom  he 

*  murders,  and  first  saw  his  money,  the  manner  in  which  the 
•■  crime  came  into  his  head — and  eyes — was  as  truthful  as  it  was 

*  terrific.    This  traveller,  being  a  good  fellow,  gives  him  wine. 
You  should  see  the  dim  remembrance  of  his  better  days  that 

'  comes  over  him  as  he  takes  the  glass,  and  in  a  strange  dazed 

*  way  makes  as  if  he  were  going  to  touch  the  other  man's,  or  do 
'  some  airy  thing  with  it ;  and  then  stops  and  flings  the  contents 

*  down  his  hot  throat,  as  if  he  were  pouring  it  into  a  lime-kiln. 

*  But  this  was  nothing  to  what  follows  after  he  has  done  the 
'  murder,  and  comes  home,  with  a  basket  of  provisions,  a  ragged 
'  pocket  full  of  money,  and  a  badly-washed  bloody  right  hand — 

*  which  his  little  girl  finds  out  After  the  child  asked  him  if  he 
'  had  hurt  his  hand,  his  going  aside,  turning  himself  round,  and 

*  Twenty-one  years  before  this  date,  now,  eighteen  years  later,  he  is  ap- 
in  this  same  part,  Lemaitre  had  made  pearing  in  one  of  the  revivals  of  Viclc- 
a  deep  impression  iu  London;  and      PI ugo  in  Paris.  (1873.) 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


Paris:    *  looking  over  all  his  clothes  for  spots,  was  so  inexpressibly 

—  —  <  dreadful  that  it  really  scared  one.    He  called  for  wine,  and  the 

'  sickness  that  came  upon  him  when  he  saw  the  colour,  was  one 

*  of  the  things  that  brought  out  the  curious  cry  I  have  spoken  of, 

*  from  the  audience.    Then  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  bloody  mist,  and 

*  went  on  to  the  end  groping  about,  with  no  mind  for  anything, 

*  except  making  his  fortune  by  staking  this  money,  and  a  faint 

*  dull  kind  of  love  for  the  child.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  satisfy 
Last  scene  '  one*s-self  by  saying  enough  of  this  magnificent  performance.  I 
Gambler  5  *  have  never  seen  him  come  near  its  finest  points,  in  anything 
bribed.       *  else.    He  said  two  things  in  a  way  that  alone  would  put  him 

*  far  apart  from  all  other  actors.    One  to  his  wife,  when  he  has 

*  exultingly  shewn  her  the  money  and  she  has  asked  him  how  he 

*  got  it — "  I  found  it " — and  the  other  to  his  old  companion  and 

*  tempter,  when  he  was  charged  by  him  with  having  killed  that 
'  traveller,  and  suddenly  went  headlong  mad  and  took  him  by  the 

*  throat  and  howled  out,  "  It  wasn't  I  who  murdered  him — it  was 
'  "Misery!"  And  such  a  dress;  such  a  face;  and,  above  all, 
'  such  an  extraordinary  guilty  wicked  thing  as  he  made  of  a 

*  knotted  branch  of  a  tree  which  was  his  walking-stick,  from  the 
<  moment  when  the  idea  of  the  murder  came  into  his  head !  I 

could  write  pages  about  him.  It  is  an  impression  quite  inefface- 
able.   He  got  half-boastful  of  that  walking-staff  to  himself,  and 

*  half-afraid  of  it ;  and  didn't  know  whether  to  be  grimly  pleased 

*  that  it  had  the  jagged  end,  or  to  hate  it  and  be  horrified  at  it. 

*  He  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the  inn-yard,  drinking  with  the 

*  traveller ;  and  this  horrible  stick  got  between  them  like  the 

*  Devil,  while  he  counted  on  his  fingers  the  uses  he  could  put 

*  the  money  to.' 

That  was  at  the  close  of  February.  In  October,  Dickens's 
longer  residence  began.  He  betook  himself  with  his  family,  after 
two  unsuccessful  attempts  in  the  new  region  of  the  Rue  Balzac 
and  Rue  Lord  Byron,  to  an  apartment  in  the  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees.  Over  him  was  an  English  bachelor  with  an  establish- 
ment consisting  of  an  English  groom  and  five  English  horses, 
^gp^f^o""  '  The  concierge  and  his  wife  told  us  that  his  name  was  Six^  which 
'  drove  me  nearly  mad  until  we  discovered  it  to  be  Sykes.'  The; 


Residence  in  Paris, 


197 


situation  was  a  good  one,  very  cheerful  for  himself  and  with  Paris 

amusement  for  his  children.    It  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  above   

Franconi's  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  and  within  a  door  or 
two  of  the  Jardin  d'Hiver.  The  Exposition  was  just  below ;  the 
Barriere  de  I'Etoile  from  a  quarter  to  half  a  mile  below ;  and  all 
Paris,  including  Emperor  and  Empress  coming  from  and  returning 
to  St.  Cloud,  thronged  past  the  windows  in  open  carriages  or  on 
horseback,  all  day  long.  Now  it  was  he  found  himself  more  of  a  ^ 
celebrity  than  when  he  had  wintered  in  the  city  nine  years  before  ;* 
the  feuilleton  of  the  Moniteur  was  filled  daily  with  a  translation 
of  Chuzzlewit ;  and  he  had  soon  to  consider  the  proposal  I  have 
named,  to  publish  in  French  his  collected  novels  and  tales,  of 
which  the  result  will  be  stated  in  a  note  on  a  later  page.  Before 
he  had  been  a  week  in  his  new  abode,  Ary  Scheffer,  *  a  frank  and  ^^^^^ 
'  noble  fellow,'  had  made  his  acquaintance ;  introduced  him  to 
several  distinguished  Frenchmen  ;  and  expressed  the  wish  to 
paint  him.  To  Scheffer  was  also  due  an  advantage  obtained  for 
my  friend's  two  little  daughters  of  which  they  may  always  keep 
the  memory  with  pride.    '  Mamey  and  Katie  are  learning  Italian, 

*  and  their  master  is  Manin  of  Venetian  fame,  the  best  and  the 

*  noblest  of  those  unhappy  gentlemen.    He  came  here  with  a  Sanili. 

*  wife  and  a  beloved  daughter,  and  they  are  both  dead.  Scheffer 

*  made  him  known  to  me,  and  has  been,  I  understand,  wonder- 

*  fully  generous  and  good  to  him.'  Nor  may  I  omit  to  state  the 
enjoyment  afforded  him,  not  only  by  the  presence  in  Paris  during 
the  winter  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  White  of 
Bonchurch,  but  by  the  many  friends  from  England  whom  the 


*  '  It  is  surprising  what  a  change 

*  nine  years  has  made  in  my  notoriety 
'  here.    So  many  of  the  rising  French 

*  generation  now  read  English  (and 
'  Chuzzlewit  is  now  being  translated 
'  daily  in  the  Moniteur),  that  I  can't 
'  go  into  a  shop  and  give  my  card 

*  without  being  acknowledged  in  the 
'  pleasantest  way  possible.    A  curio- 

*  sity-dealer  brought  home  some  little 

*  knick-knacks  I  had  bought,  the  other 
'  aight,  and  knew  all  about  my  books 


'  from  beginning  to  end  of  *em.  There 

*  is  much  of  the  personal  friendliness 

*  in  my  readers,  here,  that  is  so  de- 

*  lightful  at  home ;  and  I  have  been 

*  greatly  surprised  and  pleased  by  the 

*  unexpected  discovery.*  To  this  I 
may  add  a  line  from  one  of  his  letters 
six  years  later.  *  I  see  my  books  in 
'  French  at  every  railway  station 
'  great  and  small.* — 13th  of  Oct, 
1862. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Art  Exposition  brought  over.  Sir  Alexander  Cockburn  was  one 
of  these ;  Edwin  Land  seer,  Charles  Robert  Leslie,  and  William 
Boxall,  were  others.  Macready  left  his  retreat  at  Sherborne  to 
make  him  a  visit  of  several  days.  Thackeray  went  to  and  fro 
all  the  time  between  London  and  his  mother's  house,  in  the 
Champs  Elys^es  too,  where  his  daughters  were.  Paris  for  the 
time  was  also  the  home  of  Robert  Lytton,  who  belonged  to  the 
Embassy,  of  the  Sartorises,  of  the  Brownings,  and  of  others  whom 
Dickens  liked  and  cared  for. 

At  the  first  play  he  went  to,  the  performance  was  stopped 
while  the  news  of  the  last  Crimean  engagement,  just  issued  in  a 
supplement  to  the  Moniteur,  was  read  from  the  stage.    *  It  made 

*  not  the  faintest  eifect  upon  the  audience ;  and  even  the  hired 
'  claqueurs,  who  had  been  absurdly  loud  during  the  piece,  seemed 

*  to  consider  the  war  not  at  all  within  their  contract,  and  were  as 
'  stagnant  as  ditch-water.    The  theatre  was  full.    It  is  quite  im- 

*  possible  to  see  such  apathy,  and  suppose  the  war  to  be  popular, 

*  whatever  may  be  asserted  to  the  contrary.'  The  day  before,  he 
had  met  the  Emperor  and  the  King  of  Sardinia  in  the  streets, 

*  and,  as  usual,  no  man  touching  his  hat,  and  very  very  few  so 
'  much  as  looking  round.' 

The  success  of  a  most  agreeable  little  piece  by  our  old  friend 
Regnier  took  him  next  to  the  Fran^ais,  where  Plessy's  acting 
enchanted  him.  *  Of  course  the  interest  of  it  turns  upon  a  flawed 
'  piece  of  living  china  {that  seems  to  be  positively  essential),  but 

*  as  in  most  of  these  cases,  if  you  will  accept  the  position  in 
'  which  you  find  the  people,  you  have  nothing  more  to  bother 

*  your  morality  about.'  The  theatre  in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  how- 
ever, was  not  generally  his  favourite  resort  He  used  to  talk  of 
it  whimsically  as  a  kind  of  tomb,  where  you  went,  as  the  Eastern 
people  did  in  the  stories,  to  think  of  your  unsuccessful  loves  and 
dead  relations.  '  There  is  a  dreary  classicality  at  that  establish- 
'  ment  calculated  to  freeze  the  marrow.  Between  ourselves,  even 
'  one's  best  friends  there  are  at  times  very  aggravating.  One  tires 
'  of  seeing  a  man,  through  any  number  ot  acts,  remembering  every- 

*  thing  by  patting  his  forehead  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  jerking 

*  out  sentences  by  shaking  himself,  and  piling  them  up  in  pyramids 


Residence  in  Pans, 


199 


*  over  his  head  with  his  right  forefinger.  And  they  have  a  generic  Paris 

1855-6. 

*  small  comedy-piece,  where  you  see  two  sofas  and  three  little  

*  tables,  to  which  a  man  enters  with  his  hat  on,  to  talk  to  another  tionaiities 

of  the 

*  man — and  m  respect  of  which  you  know  exactly  when  he  will  Fran^ais. 

*  get  up  from  one  sofa  to  sit  on  the  other,  and  take  his  hat  off 

*  one  table  to  put  it  upon  the  other — which  strikes  one  quite  as 

*  ludicrously  as  a  good  farce.*  .  .  .  There  seems  to  be  a  good 

*  piece  at  the  Vaudeville,  on  the  idea  of  the  Town  and  Country 

*  Mouse.    It  is  too  respectable  and  inoffensive  for  me  to-night, 

*  but  I  hope  to  see  it  before  I  leave  ...  I  have  a  horrible  idea 

*  of  making  friends  with  Franconi,  and  sauntering  when  I  am  at 

*  work  into  their  sawdust  green-room.' 

At  a  theatre  of  a  yet  heavier  school  than  the  Frangais  he  had 
a  drearier  experience.  *  On  Wednesday  we  went  to  the  Ode'on 
'  to  see  a  new  piece,  in  four  acts  and  in  verse,  called  Michei 

*  Cervantes.   I  suppose  such  an  infernal  dose  of  ditch  water  never  Mkhei 

Cervanits. 

'  was  concocted.    But  there  were  certain  passages,  describing  the 

*  suppression  of  public  opinion  in  Madrid,  which  were  received 

*  with  a  shout  of  savage  application  to  France  that  made  one 

*  stare  again  !  And  once  more,  here  again,  at  every  pause,  steady, 

*  compact,  regular  as  military  drums,  the  (Ja  Ira  ! '  On  another 
night,  even  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  drawn  there  doubtless  by  the 
attraction  of  repulsion,  he  supped  full  with  the  horrors  of  classi- 
cality  at  a  performance  of  Orestes  versified  by  Alexandre  Dumas.  ^J.™^^^'^' 

*  Nothing  have  I  ever  seen  so  weighty  and  so  ridiculous.    If  I 

*  had  not  already  learnt  to  tremble  at  the  sight  of  classic  drapery 

*  on  the  human  form,  I  should  have  plumbed  the  utmost  depths 

*  of  terrified  boredom  in  this  achievement.    The  chorus  is  not 

*  preserved  otherwise  than  that  bits  of  it  are  taken  out  for 

*  characters  to  speak.    It  is  really  so  bad  as  to  be  almost  good. 

*  Some  of  the  Frenchified  classical  anguish  struck  me  as  so 


•  He  wrote  a  satirical  account  of 
one  of  these  stock  performances  at  the 
Fran9ais,  in  which  he  brought  out  into 
strong  relief  all  their  conventionalities 
and  formal  habits,  their  regular  sur- 
prises surprising  nobody,   and  their 


mysterious  disclosures  of  immense 
secrets  known  to  everybody  before- 
hand, which  he  meant  for  Household 
Words  ;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  it 
might  give  pain  to  Kegnier,  and  he 
destroyed  it. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  Vll. 

*  unspeakably  ridiculous  that  it  puts  me  on  the  broad  grin  as 
'  I  write/ 

At  the  same  theatre,  in  the  early  spring,  he  had  a  somewhat 
livelier  entertainment.  '  I  was  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  last  night, 
'  where  there  is  a  rather  good  melodrama  called  Sang  Mele^  in 

*  which  one  of  the  characters  is  an  English  Lord — Lord  William 
'  Falkland — who  is  called  throughout  the  piece  Milor  Williams 
'  Fack  Lorn,  and  is  a  hundred  times  described  by  others  and 
'  described  by  himself  as  Williams.    He  is  admirably  played; 

*  but  two  English  travelling  ladies  are  beyond  expression  ridiculous, 
'  and  there  is  something  positively  vicious  in  their  utter  want  of 
'  truth.  One  "  set,"  where  the  action  of  a  whole  act  is  supposed 
'  to  take  place  in  the  great  wooden  verandah  of  a  Swiss  hotel 
'  overhanging  a  mountain  ravine,  is  the  best  piece  of  stage  car- 
'  pentering  I  have  seen  in  France.  Next  week  we  are  to  have  at 
'  the  Ambigu  Paradise  Lost,  with  the  murder  of  Abel,  and  the 
'  Deluge.  The  wildest  rumours  are  afloat  as  to  the  un-dressing 
'  of  our  first  parents.'  Anticipation  far  outdoes  a  reality  of  this 
kind;  and  at  the  fever-pitch  to  which  rumours  raised  it  here, 
Dickens  might  vainly  have  attempted  to  get  admission  on  the 
first  night,  if  Mr.  Webster,  the  English  manager  and  comedian, 
had  not  obtained  a  ticket  for  him.  He  went  with  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins.  *  We  were  rung  in  (out  of  the  cafe  below  the  Ambigu) 
'  at  8,  and  the  play  was  over  at  half-past  i  :  the  waits  between 
'  the  acts  being  very  much  longer  than  the  acts  themselves.  The 
'  house  was  crammed  to  excess  in  every  part,  and  the  galleries 
'  awful  with  Blouses,  who  again,  during  the  whole  of  the  waits, 
'  beat  with  the  regularity  of  military  drums  the  revolutionary  tune 
'  of  famous  memory — ^a  Ira  !     The  play  is  a  compound  of 

*  Paradise  Lost  zxid.  Byron's  Cain;  and  some  of  the  controversies 

*  between  the  archangel  and  the  devil,  when  the  celestial  power 

*  argues  with  the  infernal  in  conversational  French,  as  "  Eh  bien  ! 

*  "  Satan,  crois-tu  done  que  notre  Seigneur  t'aurait  expos^  aur 

*  "  tourments  que  t'endures  k  present,  sans  avoir  prdvu,"  &c.  &c. 
'  are  very  ridiculous.    All  the  supernatural  personages  are  alarm- 

*  ingly  natural  (as  theatre  nature  goes),  and  walk  about  in  the 

*  stupidest  way.    Which  has  occasioned  Collins  and  myself  to 


Residence  in  Paris, 


20I 


'  institute  a  perquisition  whether  the  French  ever  have  shown  any  Paris 

*  kind  of  idea  of  the  supernatural ;  and  to  decide  this  rather  in   

*  the  negative.    The  people  are  very  well  dressed,  and  Eve  very 

*  modestly.    All  Paris  and  the  provinces  had  been  ransacked  for 

*  a  woman  who  had  brown  hair  that  would  fall  to  the  calves  of 
'  her  legs — and  she  was  found  at  last  at  the  Odeon.  There  was 
'  nothing  attractive  untH  the  4th  act,  when  there  was  a  pretty 

*  good  scene  of  the  children  of  Cain  dancing  in,  and  desecrating, 

*  a  temple,  while  Abel  and  his  family  were  hammering  hard  at 

*  the  Ark,  outside,  in  all  the  pauses  of  the  revel.    The  Deluge  in  Profane 

*  the  fifth  act  was  up  to  about  the  mark  of  a  drowning  scene  at 

*  the  Adelphi ;  but  it  had  one  new  feature.  When  the  rain 
'  ceased,  and  the  ark  drove  in  on  the  great  expanse  of  water, 
'  then  lying  waveless  as  the  mists  cleared  and  the  sun  broke  out, 

*  numbers  of  bodies  drifted  up  and  down.    These  were  all  real 

*  men  and  boys,  each  separate,  on  a  new  kind  of  horizontal  sloat. 

*  They  looked  horrible  and  real    Altogether,  a  really  dull  busi- 

*  ness  ;  but  I  dare  say  it  will  go  for  a  long  while.' 

A  piece  of  honest  farce  is  a  relief  from  these  profane  absurdities. 

*  An  uncommonly  droll  piece  with  an  original  comic  idea  in  it 

*  has  been  in  course  of  representation  here.  It  is  called  Les 
'  Cheveux  de  ma  Femme.    A  man  who  is  dotingly  fond  of  his  wife, 

*  and  who  wishes  to  know  whether  she  loved  anybody  else  before 

'  they  were  married,  cuts  off  a  lock  of  her  hair  by  stealth,  and  ^^^^ 
'  takes  it  to  a  great  mesmeriser,  who  submits  it  to  a  clairvoyante 

*  who  never  was  wrong.    It  is  discovered  that  the  owner  of  this 

*  hair  has  been  up  to  the  most  frightful  dissipations,  insomuch 

*  that  the  clairvoyante  can't  mention  half  of  them.  The  distracted 

*  husband  goes  home  to  reproach  his  wife,  and  she  then  reveals 

*  that  she  wears  a  wig,  and  takes  it  off.' 

The  last  piece  he  went  to  see  before  leaving  Paris  was  a  French 
version  of  As  You  Like  It;  but  he  found  two  acts  of  it  to  be 
more  than  enough.    *  In  Co?nme  il  vous  Plaira  nobody  has  any-  French 

*  thing  to  do  but  to  sit  down  as  often  as  possible  on  as  many  ^^i-J  /" 

*  stones  and  trunks  of  trees  as  possible.     When  I  had  seen 

*  Jacques  seat  himself  on  17  roots  of  trees,  and  25  grey  stones, 

*  which  was  at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  I  came  away.'  Only 


202 


The  Life  of  Cha7des  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


Paris  : 
1855-6. 


Story  of  a 

French 

drama. 


one  more  sketch  taken  in  a  theatre,  and  perhaps  the  best,  I  will 
give  from  these  letters.  It  simply  tells  what  is  necessary  to 
understand  a  particular  '  tag '  to  a  play,  but  it  is  related  so  prettily 
that  the  thing  it  celebrates  could  not  have  a  nicer  effect  than  is 
produced  by  this  account  of  it.  The  play  in  question,  Memoires 
du  Diable^  and  another  piece  of  enchanting  interest,  the  Medecin 
des  Enfants*  were  his  favourites  among  all  he  saw  at  this  time. 

*  As  I  have  no  news,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  about  the  tag  that  I 

*  thought  so  pretty  to  the  Memoires  du  Diable ;  in  which  piece  by 

*  the  way,  there  is  a  most  admirable  part,  most  admirably  played, 

*  in  which  a  man  says  merely  "  Yes  "  or  "  No  "  all  through  the 

*  piece,  until  the  last  scene.    A  certain  M.  Robin  has  got  hold 

*  of  the  papers  of  a  deceased  lawyer,  concerning  a  certain  estate 
'  which  has  been  swindled  away  from  its  rightful  owner,  a  Baron's 
'  widow,  into  other  hands.  They  disclose  so  much  roguery  that 
'  he  binds  them  up  into  a  volume  lettered  Memoires  du  Diable," 
'  The  knowledge  he  derives  from  these  papers  not  only  enables 

*  him  to  unmask  the  hypocrites  all  through  the  piece  (in  an  ex- 

*  cellent  manner),  but  induces  him  to  propose  to  the  Baroness 

*  that  if  he  restores  to  her  her  estate  and  good  name — for  even 

*  her  marriage  tothe  deceased  Baron  is  denied — she  shall  give 

*  him  her  daughter  in   marriage.    The   daughter  herself,  on 

*  hearing  the  offer,  accepts  it ;  and  a  part  of  the  plot  is,  her 

*  going  to  a  masked  ball,  to  which  he  goes  as  the  Devil,  to  see 

*  how  she  likes  him  (when   she  finds,  of  course,  that  she  likes 


MSdecin 
des  En- 
fants. 


*  Before  he  saw  this  he  wrote  : 

*  That  piece  you  spoke  of  (the  Midecin 

*  des  infants)  is  one  of  the  very  best 

*  melodramas  I  have  ever  read.  Situa- 

*  tions,  admirable.    I  will  send  it  to 

*  you  by  Landseer.  I  am  very  curious 
'  indeed  to  go  and  see  it ;  and  it  is  an 

*  instance  to  me  of  the  powerful  emo- 
'  tions  from  which  art  is  shut  out  in 

*  England  by  the  conventionalities.* 
After  seeing  it  he  writes  :  '  The  low  cry 
'  of  excitement  and  expectation  that 

*  goes  round  the  house  when  any  one 

*  of  the  great  situations  is  felt  to  be 

*  coming,  is  very  remarkable  indeed. 


*  I  suppose  there  has  not  been  so  great 

*  a  success  of  the  genuine  and  worthy 

*  kind  (for  the   authors  have  really 

*  taken  the  French  dramatic  bull  by 

*  the  horns,  and  put  the  adulterous 

*  wife  in  the  right  position),  for  many 

*  years.    When  you  come  over  and 

*  see  it,  you  will  say  you  never  saw 

*  anything  so  admirably  done.  There 

*  is  one  actor,  Bignon  (M.  Delormel), 

*  who  has  a  good  deal  of  Macready  in 

*  him  ;  sometimes  looks  very  like  him ; 

*  and  who  seems  to  me  the  perfection 

*  of  manly  good  sense.*  17th  of  April 
1856. 


§V.] 


Residence  in  Paris. 


203 


*  him  very  much).    The  country  people  about  the  Chateau  in 

*  dispute,  suppose  him  to  be  really  the  Devil,  because  of  his  ^^^~~r~ 

*  strange  knowledge,  and  his  strange  comings  and  goings ;  and  '^'^  Diabu. 

*  he,  being  with  this  girl  in  one  of  its  old  rooms,  in  the  beginning 

*  of  the  3rd  act,  shews  her  a  little  coffer  on  the  table  with  a 

*  bell  in  it    "  They  suppose,"  he  tells  her,  "  that  whenever  this 

*  "  bell  is  rung,  I  appear  and  obey  the  summons.    Very  igno- 

*  rant,  isn't  it  ?    But,  if  you  ever  want  me  particularly — very 

*  "  particularly — ring  the  little  bell  and  try."    The  plot  proceeds 

*  to  its  development.    The  wrong-doers  are  exposed ;  the  missing 

*  document,  proving  the  marriage,  is  found ;  everything  is  finished ; 

*  they  are  all  on  the  stage  ;  and  M.  Robin  hands  the  paper  to 

*  the  Baroness.    "  You  are  reinstated  in  your  rights,  Madame ;  you 

*  "  are  happy ;  I  will  not  hold  you  to  a  compact  made  when  you 
'  "  didn't  know  me ;  I  release  you  and  your  fair  daughter ;  the 
'  "  pleasure  of  doing  what  I  have  done,  is  my  sufficient  reward ; 
'  "  I  kiss  your  hand  and  take  my  leave.    Farewell ! "    He  backs 

*  himself  courteously  out ;  the  piece  seems  concluded,  everybody 

*  wonders,  the  girl  (little  Mdlle.  Luther)  stands  amazed ;  when  Delightful 

close  to  a 

*  she  suddenly  remembers  the  little  bell.    In  the  prettiest  way  play. 
'  possible,  she  runs  to  the  coffer  on  the  table,  takes  out  the 

*  little  bell,  rings  it,  and  he  comes  rushing  back  and  folds  her 

*  to  his  heart.    I  never  saw  a  prettier  thing  in  my  life.    It  made 

*  me  laugh  in  that  most  delightful  of  ways,  with  the  tears  in  my 

*  eyes ;  so  that  I  can  never  forget  it,  and  must  go  and  see  it  again.' 

But  great  as  was  the  pleasure  thus  derived  from  the  theatre,  he 
was,  in  the  matter  ot  social  intercourse,  even  more  indebted  to 
distinguished  men  connected  with  it  by  authorship  or  acting. 
At  Scribe's  he  was  entertained  frequently  ;  and  *  very  handsome 

*  and  pleasant '  was  his  account  of  the  dinners,  as  of  all  the  be-  m. 
longings,  of  the  prolific  dramatist — a  charming  place  in  Paris,  a  *" 
fine  estate  in  the  country,  capital  carriage,  handsome  pair  of 
horses,  'all  made,  as  he  says,  by  his  pen.'    One  of  the  guests  the 

first  evening  was  Auber,  'a  stolid  little  elderly  man,  rather 

*  petulant  in  manner,'  who  told  Dickens  he  had  once  lived  at 

*  Stock  Noonton '  (Stoke  Newington)  to  study  English,  but  had 
forgotten  it  all.    'Louis  Philippe  had  invited  him  to  meet  the 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


'  Queen  of  England,  and  when  L.  P.  presented  him,  the  Queen 
'said,  "We  are  such  old  acquaintances  through  M.  Auber's 

*  "  works,  that  an  introduction  is  quite  unnecessary."  They  met 
again  a  few  nights  later,  with  the  author  of  the  History  of  the 
Girondins^  at  the  hospitable  table  of  M.  Pichot,  to  whom  La- 
martine  had  expressed  a  strong  desire  again  to  meet  Dickens  as 

*  un  des  grands  amis  de  son  imagination.'  *He  continues  to  be 
'  precisely  as  we  formerly  knew  him,  both  in  appearance  and 

*  manner ;  highly  prepossessing,  and  with  a  sort  of  calm  passion 

*  about  him,  very  taking  indeed.    We  talked  of  De  Foe  *  and 

*  Richardson,  and  of  that  wonderful  genius  for  the  minutest 

*  details  in  a  narrative  which  has  given  them  so  much  fame  in 
*■  France.  I  found  him  frank  and  unaffected,  and  full  of  curious 
'  knowledge  of  the  French  common  people.  He  informed  the 
'  company  at  dinner  that  he  had  rarely  met  a  foreigner  who  spoke 
'  French  so  easily  as  your  inimitable  correspondent,  whereat 
'  your  correspondent  blushed  modestly,  and  almost  immediately 

*  afterwards  so  nearly  choked  himself  with  the  bone  of  a  fowl 
'  (which  is  still  in  his  throat),  that  he  sat  in  torture  for  ten 

*  minutes  with  a  strong  apprehension  that  he  was  going  to  make 

*  the  good  Pichot  famous  by  dying  like  the  little  Hunchback  at 
'  his  table.    Scribe  and  his  wife  were  of  the  party,  but  had  to  go 

*  away  at  the  ice-time  because  it  was  the  first  representation  at 


•  I  subjoin  from  another  of  these 
French  letters  of  later  date  a  remark 
on  Robinson  Crusoe.  *  You  remember 
'  my  saying  to  you  some  time  ago  how 

*  curious  I  thought  it  that  Robinson 

*  Crusoe  should  be  the  only  instance  of 

*  an  universally  popular  book  that 

*  could  make  no  one  laugh  and  could 

*  make  no  one  cry,    I  have  been  read- 

*  ing  it  again  just  now,  in  the  course  of 

*  my  numerous  refreshings  at  those 

*  English  vi^ells,  and  I  will  venture  to 

*  say  that  there  is  not  in  literature  a 

*  more  surprising  instance  of  an  utter 

*  want  of  tenderness  and  sentiment, 

*  than  the  death  of  Friday.    It  is  as 

*  heartless  as  Gil  Bias,  in  a  very  dif- 

*  ferent  and  far  more  serious  way, 


*  But  the  second  part  altogether  will 

*  not  bear  enquiry.  In  the  second 
'  part  of  Don  Quixote  are  some  of  the 

*  finest  things.  But  the  second  part 
'  of  Robinson  Crusoe  is  perfectly  con- 
'  temptible,  in  the  glaring  defect  that 

*  it  exhibits  the  man  who  was  30  years 

*  on  that  desert  island  with  no  visible 
'  efifect  made  on  his  character  by  that 

*  experience.    De  Foe's  women  too — 

*  Robinson  Crusoe's  wife  for  instance 

*  — are  terrible  dull  commonplace  fel- 

*  lows  without  breeches  ;  and  I  have 
'  no  doubt  he  was  a  precious  dry  and 

*  disagreeable  article  himself— I  mean 

*  De  Foe  :  not  Robinson.    Poor  dear 

*  Goldsmith  (T  remember  as  I  write) 
'  derived  the  same  impression.' 


§  v.]  Residence  in  Paris.  20  ■ 

*  the  Opera  Comique  of  a  new  opera  by  Aiiber  and  himself,  of  ^g^^^'^* 


*  which  very  great  expectations  have  been  formed.    It  was  very 

*  curious  to  see  him — the  author  of  400  pieces — getting  nervous 

*  as  the  time  approached,  and  pulhng  out  his  watch  every  minute, 

*  At  last  he  dashed  out  as  if  he  were  going  into  what  a  friend  of 
'  mine  calls  a  plunge-bath.    Whereat  she  rose  and  followed.  She 

*  is  the  most  extraordinary  woman  I  ever  beheld ;  for  her  eldest 

*  son  must  be  thirty,  and  she  has  the  figure  of  five-and- twenty,  and 

*  is  strikingly  handsome.    So  graceful  too,  that  her  manner  of  Madame 

*  rising,  curtseying,  laughing,   and   going  out  after  him,  was 

*  pleasanter  than  the  pleasantest  thing  I  have  ever  seen  done  on 
'  the  stage.'  The  opera  Dickens  himself  saw  a  week  later,  and 
wrote  of  it  as  *  most  charming.    Delightful  music,  an  excellent 

*  story,  immense  stage  tact,  capital  scenic  arrangements,  and  the 

*  most  delightful  little  prima  donna  ever  seen  or  heard,  in  the 

*  person  of  Marie  Cabel.    It  is  called  Manon  Lescaut — from  the  Ma»on 

Lescaut. 

'  old  romance — and  is  charming  throughout.  She  sings  a  laughing 

*  song  in  it  which  is  received  with  madness,  and  which  is  the  only 

*  real  laughing  song  that  ever  was  written.  '  Auber  told  me  that 

*  when  it  was  first  rehearsed,  it  made  a  great  effect  upon  the 

*  orchestra ;  and  that  he  could  not  have  had  a  better  compliment 
'  upon  its  freshness  than  the  musical  director  paid  him,  in  coming 

*  and  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  with  "  Bravo,  jeune  homme  ! 
'    Cela  promet  bien  !  " ' 

At  dinner  at  Regnier's  he  met  M.  Legouvet,  in  whose  tragedy  At  m. 

Regnicr't. 

Rachel,  after  its  acceptance,  had  refused  to  act  Medea ;  a  caprice 
which  had  led  not  only  to  her  condemnation  in  costs  of  so  much 
a  night  until  she  did  act  it,  but  to  a  quasi  rivalry  against  her  by 
Ristori,  who  was  now  on  her  way  to  Paris  to  play  it  in  Italian. 
To  this  performance  Dickens  and  Macready  subsequently  went 
together,  and  pronounced  it  to  be  hopelessly  bad.  *  In  the  day 
'  entertainments,  and  little  melodrama  theatres,  of  Italy,  I  have  ^''^'^ 

*  seen  the  same  thing  fifty  times,  only  not  at  once  so  conventional 

*  and  so  exaggerated.    The  papers  have  all  been  in  fits  respecting 

*  the  sublimity  of  the  performr.nce,  and  the  genuineness  of  the 

*  applause — particularly  of  the  bouquets  ;  which  were  thrown  on 

*  at  the  most  preposterous  times  in  the  midst  of  agonizing  scenes, 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


*  so  that  the  characters  had  to  pick  their  way  among  them,  and 

*  a  certain  stout  gentleman  who  played  King  Creon  was  obliged 

*  to  keep  a  wary  eye,  all  night,  on  the  proscenium  boxes,  and 

*  dodge  them  as  they  came  down.  Now  Scribe,  who  dined  here 
'  next  day  (and  who  follows  on  the  Ristori  side,  being  offended,  as 
'  everybody  has  been,  by  the  insolence  of  Rachel),  could  not 
'  resist  the  temptation  of  telling  us,  that,  going  round  at  the  end 
'  of  the  first  act  to  offer  his  congratulations,  he  met  all  the  bou- 
'  quets  coming  back  in  men's  arms  to  be  thrown  on  again  in  the 

*  second  act.  ...  By  the  bye,  I  see  a  fine  actor  lost  in  Scribe. 
'  In  all  his  pieces  he  has  everything  done  in  his  own  way ;  and  on 
*■  that  same  night  he  was  showing  what  Rachel  did  not  do,  and 
'  wouldn't  do,  in  the  last  scene  of  Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  with 

*  extraordinary  force  and  intensity.' 

At  the  house  of  another  great  artist,  Madame  Viardot,*  the 
sister  of  Malibran,  Dickens  dined  to  meet  Georges  Sand,  that 
lady  having  appointed  the  day  and  hour  for  the  interesting  fes- 
tival, which  came  off  duly  on  the  loth  of  January.  *I  suppose 
'  it  to  be  impossible  to  imagine  anybody  more  unlike  my  pre- 

*  conceptions  than  the  illustrious  Sand.  Just  the  kind  of  woman 
'  in  appearance  whom  you  might  suppose  to  be  the  Queen's 

*  monthly  nurse.  Chubby,  matronly,  swarthy,  black-eyed.  Nothing 


*  When  in  Paris  six  years  later 
Dickens  saw  this  fine  singer  in  an 
opera  by  Gluck,  and  the  reader  will 
not  be  sorry  to  have  his  description  of 
it.  '  Last  night  I  saw  Madame  Viar- 
'  dot  do  Gluck's  Orphee.    It  is  a  most 

*  extraordinary  performance—  pathetic 
'  in  the  highest  degree,  and  full  of 

*  quite  sublime  acting.  Though  it  is 
'  unapproachably  fine  from  first  to 
'  last,  the  beginning  of  it,  at  the  tomb 
'  of  Eurydice,  is  a  thing  that  I  cannot 
'  remember  at  this  moment  of  writing, 
'  without  emotion.  It  is  the  finest 
'  presentation  of  grief  that  I  can  ima- 
'  gine.  And  when  she  has  received 
'  hope  from  the  gods,  and  encourage- 
'  ment  to  go  into  the  other  world  and 

*  seek  Eurydice,  Viardot's  manner  of 


'  taking  the  relinquished  lyre  from  the 

*  tomb  and  becoming  radiant  again,  is 

*  most  noble.  Also  she  recognizes 
'  Eurydice's  touch,  when  at  length  the 

*  hand  is  put  in  hers  from  behind,  like 
'  a  most  transcendant  genius.  And 

*  when,   yielding  to  Eurydice's  en- 

*  treaties  she  has  turned  round  and 
'  slain  her  with  a  look,  her  despair 
'  over  the  body  is  grand  in  the  extreme. 

*  It  is  worth  a  journey  to  Paris  to  see, 
'  for  there  is  no  such  Art  to  be  other- 
'  wise  looked  upon.  Her  husband 
'  stumbled  over  me  by  mere  chance, 

*  and  took  me  to  her  dressing-room. 

*  Nothing  could  have  happened  better 
'  as  a  genuine  homage  to  the  perform- 

*  ance,  for  I  was  disfigured  with  cty- 
'  ing.' — 30th  of  November  1862. 


Residence  in  Paris. 


207 


'  of  the  blue-stocking  about  her,  except  a  little  final  way  of  Paris 

1855-6. 

*  settling  all  your  opinions  with  hers,  which  I  take  to  have  been  

'  acquired  in  the  country,  where  she  lives,  and  in  the  domination 

*  of  a  small  circle.    A  singularly  ordinary  woman  in  appearance 

*  and  manner.    The  dinner  was  very  good  and  remarkably  un- 

*  pretending.    Ourselves,  Madame  and  her  son,  the  Scheffers,  the 

*  Sartorises,  and  some  Lady  somebody  (from  the  Crimea  last)  Viardots. 

*  who  wore  a  species  of  paletot,  and  smoked.    The  Viardots 

*  have  a  house  away  in  the  new  part  of  Paris,  which  looks  exactly 

*  as  if  they  had  moved  into  it  last  week  and  were  going  away 
next.     Notwithstanding  which,  they  have  lived  in  it  eight 

*  years.  The  opera  the  very  last  thing  on  earth  you  would  asso- 
'  ciate  with  the  family.    Piano  not  even  opened.    Her  husband 

*  is  an  extremely  good  fellow,  and  she  is  as  natural  as  it  is 

*  possible  to  be.' 

Dickens  was  hardly  the  man  to  take  fair  measure  of  Madame 
Dudevant  in  meeting  her  thus.  He  was  not  familiar  with  her 
writings,  and  had  no  very  special  liking  for  such  of  them  as  he 
knew.  But  no  disappointment,  nothing  but  amazement,  awaited  ^f^.'^^J^J.^'^ 
him  at  a  dinner  that  followed  soon  after.  Emile  de  Girardin 
gave  a  banquet  in  his  honour.  His  description  of  it,  which  he 
declares  to  be  strictly  prosaic,  sounds  a  little  Oriental,  but  not 
inappropriately  so.    *  No  man  unacquainted  with  my  determina- 

*  tion  never  to  embellish  or  fancify  such  accounts,  could  believe 

*  in  the  description  I  shall  let  off  when  we  meet,  of  dining  at 

*  Emile  Girardin's — of  the  three  gorgeous  drawing  rooms  with  ten  J^o"^*' 

*  thousand  wax  candles  in  golden  sconces,  terminating  in  a  dining 
'  room  of  unprecedented  magnificence  with  two  enormous  trans- 
'  parent  plate-glass  doors  in  it,  looking  (across  an  ante-chamber 
'  full  of  clean  plates)  straight  into  the  kitchen,  with  the  cooks  in 
'  their  white  paper  caps  dishing  the  dinner.    From  his  seat  in 

*  the  midst  of  the  table,  the  host  (like  a  Giant  in  a  Fairy  story) 

*  beholds  the  kitchen,  and  the  snow-white  tables,  and  the  pro- 

*  found  order  and  silence  there  prevailing.  Forth  from  the 
'  plate-glass  doors  issues  the  Banquet — the  most  wonderful  feast 

*  ever  tasted  by  mortal :  at  the  present  price  of  Truffles,  that 

*  article  alone  costing  (for  eight  people)  at  least  five  pounds.  On 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  Vll. 

*  the  table  are  ground  glass  jugs  of  peculiar  construction,  laden 

*  with  the  finest  growth  of  Champagne  and  the  coolest  ice.  With 

*  the  third  course  is  issued  Port  Wine  (previously  unheard  of  in  a 

*  good  state  on  this  continent),  which  would  fetch  two  guineas  a 

*  bottle  at  any  sale.  The  dinner  done,  Oriental  flowers  in  vases 
'  of  golden  cobweb  are  placed  upon  the  board.    With  the  ice  is 

*  issued  Brandy,  buried  for  loo  years.    To  that  succeeds  Coffee, 

*  brought  by  the  brother  of  one  of  the  convives  from  the  remotest 
'  East,  in  exchange  for  an  equal  quantity  of  Californian  gold  dust. 

*  The  company  being  returned  to  the  drawing-room — tables  roll 

*  in  by  unseen  agency,  laden  with  Cigarettes  from  the  Hareem 

*  of  the  Sultan,  and  with  cool  drinks  in  which  the  flavour  of  the 

*  Lemon  arrived  yesterday  from  Algeria,  struggles  voluptuously 

*  with  the  delicate  Orange  arrived  this  morning  from  Lisbon. 
*■  That  period  past,  and  the  guests  reposing  on  Divans  worked 
'  with  many-coloured  blossoms,  big  table  rolls  in,  heavy  with 

*  massive  furniture  of  silver,  and  breathing  incense  in  the  form  of 

*  a  little  present  of  Tea  direct  from  China— table  and  all,  I 
'  believe ;  but  cannot  swear  to  it,  and  am  resolved  to  be  prosaic. 

*  All  this  time  the  host  perpetually  repeats  "  Ce  petit  diner-ci 

*  "  n'est  que  pour  faire  la  connaissance  de  Monsieur  Dickens  ;  il 
'  "  ne  compte  pas ;  ce  n'est  rien."    And  even  now  I  have  for- 

*  gotten  to  set  down  half  of  it — in  particular  the  item  of  a  far 

*  larger  plum  pudding  than  ever  was  seen  in  England  at  Christmas 
'  time,  served  with  a  celestial  sauce  in  colour  like  the  orange 

*  blossom,  and  in  substance  like  the  blossom  powdered  and 
'  bathed  in  dew,  and  called  in  the  carte  (carte  in  a  gold  frame 

*  like  a  little  fish-slice  to  be  handed  about)  "  Hommage  \  I'illustre 

*  ecrivain  d'Angleterre."    That  illustrious  man  staggered  out  at 

*  the  last  drawing-room  door,  speechless  with  wonder,  finally ;  and 

*  even  at  that  moment  his  host,  holding  to  his  lips  a  chalice  set 

*  with  precious  stones  and  containing  nectar  distilled  from  the 

*  air  that  blew  over  the  fields  of  beans  in  bloom  for  fifteen 

*  summers,  remarked  "  Le  diner  que  nous  avons  eu,  mon  cher, 

*  "  n'est  rien — il  ne  compte  pas — il  a  ete  tout-k-fait  en  famille — 

*  "  il  faut  diner  (en  verite,  diner)  bientot.  Au  plaisir  !  Au  revoir ! 

Au  diner!"' 


Residence  in  Paris. 


2og 


The  second  dinner  came,  wonderful  as  the  first ;  among  the    Paris  : 

1855-6. 

company  were  Regnier,  Jules  Sandeau,  and  the  new  Director  of  

.  Second 

the  Frangais ;  and  his  host  agam  played  Lucullus  m  the  same  banquet 
style,  with  success  even  more  consummate.    The  only  absolutely 
new  incident  however  was  that  *  After  dinner  he  asked  me  if  I 

*  would  come  into  another  room  and  smoke  a  cigar  ?  and  on  my 

*  saying  Yes,  coolly  opened  a  drawer,  containing  about  5000 

*  inestimable  cigars  in  prodigious  bundles — just  as  the  Captain 

*  of  the  Robbers  in  A/i  Baba  might  have  gone  to  a  corner  of  the 

*  cave  for  bales  of  brocade.    A  little  man  dined  who  was  blacking 

*  shoes  8  years  ago,  and  is  now  enormously  rich — the  richest  man  One  of  the 

guests. 

'  in  Paris — having  ascended  with  rapidity  up  the  usual  ladder  of 

*  the  Bourse.  By  merely  observing  that  perhaps  he  might  come 
'  down  again,  I  clouded  so  many  faces  as  to  render  it  very  clear 

*  to  me  that  everybody  present  was  at  the  same  game  for  some 

*  stake  or  other  ! '    He  returned  to  that  subject  in  a  letter  a  few 
days  later.    *  If  you  were  to  see  the  steps  of  the  Bourse  at  about  Bourse 

and  its 

*  4  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  crowd  of  blouses  and  patches  among  victims. 

*  the  speculators  there  assembled,  all  howling  and  haggard  with 

*  speculation,  you  would  stand  aghast  at  the  consideration  of  what 

*  must  be  going  on.    Concierges  and  people  like  that  perpetually 

*  blow  their  brains  out,  or  fly  into  the  Seine,  "  k  cause  des  pertes 

*  "  sur  la  Bourse."    I  hardly  ever  take  up  a  French  paper  without 

*  lighting  on  such  a  paragraph.  On  the  other  hand,  thoroughbred 

*  horses  without  end,  and  red  velvet  carriages  with  white  kid  har- 

*  ness  on  jet  black  horses,  go  by  here  all  day  long ;  and  the 

*  pedestrians  who  turn  to  look  at  them,  laugh,  and  say  "  C'est  la 

*  "  Bourse !  "  Such  crashes  must  be  staved  off  every  week  as  have 

*  not  been  seen  since  Law's  time.' 

Another  picture  connects  itself  with  this,  and  throws  light  on 
the  speculation  thus  raging.  The  French  loans  connected  with  War  loani. 
the  war,  so  much  puffed  and  praised  in  England  at  the  time  for 
the  supposed  spirit  in  which  they  were  taken  up,  had  in  fact  only 
ministered  to  the  commonest  and  lowest  gambling ;  and  the  war 
had  never  in  the  least  been  popular.  '  Emile  Girardin,'  wrote 
Dickens  on  the  23rd  of  March,  '  was  here  yesterday,  and  he  says 

*  that  Peace  is  to  be  formally  announced  at  Paris  to-naorrow  amid 

VOL.  II.  p 


2IO 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,    [Book  Vii. 


Paris  : 
i8s5-6. 


Entry  of 
troops 
from 
Crimea. 


Zouaves 
and  their 
dog. 


Regiments 
in  the 
streets. 


*  general  apathy/  But  the  French  are  never  wholly  apathetic  to 
their  own  exploits ;  and  a  display  with  a  touch  of  excitement 
in  it  had  been  witnessed  a  couple  of  months  before  on  the  entry 
of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea,*  when  the  Zouaves,  as  they 
marched  past,  pleased  Dickens  most.  *A  remarkable  body  of 
'  men,'  he  wrote,  *wild,  dangerous,  and  picturesque.  Close- 
'  cropped  head,  red  skull  cap,  Greek  jacket,  full  red  petticoat 
'  trowsers  trimmed  with  yellow,  and  high  white  gaiters — the  most 

*  sensible  things  for  the  purpose  I  know,  and  coming  into  use  in 

*  the  line.    A  man  with  such  things  on  his  legs  is  always  free 

*  there,  and  ready  for  a  muddy  march ;  and  might  flounder 
'  through  roads  two  feet  deep  in  mud,  and,  simply  by  changing 
'  his  gaiters  (he  has  another  pair  in  his  haversack),  be  clean  and 
'  comfortable  and  wholesome  again,  directly.  Plenty  of  beard 
^  and  moustache,  and  the  musket  carried  reversewise  with  the 
'  stock  over  the  shoulder,  make  up  the  sun-burnt  Zouave.  He 
'  strides  likes  Bobadil,  smoking  as  he  goes  ;  and  when  he  laughs 

*  (they  were  under  my  window  for  half-an-hour  or  so),  plunges 

*  backward  in  the  wildest  way,  as  if  he  were  going  to  throw  a 
'  sommersault.    They  have  a  black  dog  belonging  to  the  regi- 

*  ment,  and,  when  they  now  marched  along  with  their  medals,  this 

*  dog  marched  after  the  one  non-commissioned  officer  he  in- 
'  variably  follows  with  a  profound  conviction  that  he  was  deco- 

*  rated.    I  couldn't  see  whether  he  had  a  medal,  his  hair  being 


*  Here  is  another  picture  of  Regi- 
ments in  the  Streets  of  which  the  date 
is  the  30th  of  January.    *  It  was  cold 

*  this  afternoon,  as  bright  as  Italy,  and 

*  these  Elysian  Fields  crowded  with 

*  carriages,  riders,  and  foot  passengers. 

*  All  the  fountains  were  playing,  all 
'  the  Heavens   shining.     Just  as  I 

*  went  out  at  4  o'clock,  several  regi- 
'  ments  that  had  passed  out  at  the 

*  Barriere  in  the  morning  to  exercise 

*  in  the  country,  came  marching  back, 

*  in  the  straggling  French  manner, 
'  which  is  far  more  picturesque  and 

*  real  than  anything  you  can  imagine 

*  in  that  way.  Alternately  great  storms 
'  of  drums  played,  and  then  the  most 


delicious  and  skilful  bands.  Tro- 
vatore  music.  Barber  of  Seville 
music,  all  sorts  of  music  with 
well-marked  melody  and  time.  All 
bloused  Paris  (led  by  the  Inimi- 
table, and  a  poor  cripple  who  works 
himself  up  and  down  all  day  in  a 
big- wheeled  car)  went  at  quick  march 
down  the  avenue  in  a  sort  of  hilarious 
dance.  If  the  colours  with  the  golden 
eagle  on  the  top  had  only  been  un- 
furled, we  should  have  followed  them 
anywhere,  in  any  cause— much  as 
the  children  follow  Punches  in  the 
better  cause  of  Comedy.  Napoleon 
on  the  top  of  the  Column  seemed  up 
■  to  the  whole  thing,  I  thought. ' 


Residence  in  Pans, 


211 


*  long;  but  he  was  perfectly  up  to  what  had  befallen  fiis  legiment ;  ^^'^'l^ 

*  and  I  hever  saw  anything  so  capital  as  his  way  of  regarding  the  —  

'  public.    Whatever  the  regiment  does,  he  is  always  in  his  place ; 

*  and  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  air  of  modest  triumph 

*  which  was  now  upon  him.    A  small  dog  corporeally,  but  of 

*  great  mind.'*  On  that  night  there  was  an  illumination  in 
hortour  of  the  army,  when  the  *  whole  of  Paris,  bye  streets  a^id 

*  lanes  and  all  sorts  of  out  of  the  way  places,  was  most  brilliantly 

*  illuminated.     It  looked  in  the  dark  like  Venice  and  Genoa 

*  rolled  into  one,  and  split  up  through  the  middle  by  the  Corso  at 

*  Rome  in  the  carnival  time.    The  French  people  certainly  da 

*  know  how  to  humour  their  own  countrymen,  in  a  most  marvel- 

*  lous  way.'    It  was  the  festival  time  of  the  New  Year,  and 
Dickens  was  fairly  lost  in  a  mystery  of  amazement  at  where  the  Sc,«ets  on 

1  1  /-I  1-1  T  1      New  Year's 

money  could  come  from  that  everybody  was  spendmg  on  the  Day. 
etrennes  they  were  giving  to  everybody  else.    All  the  famous 
shops  on  the  Boulevards  had  been  blockaded  for  more  than  a 
week.    *  There  is  now  a  line  of  wooden  stalls,  three  miles  long, 

*  on  each  side  of  that  immense  thoroughfare  ;  and  wherever  a  re- 

*  tiring  house  or  two  admits  of  a  double  line,  there  it  is.  All 

*  sorts  of  objects  from  shoes  and  sabots,  through  porcelain  and 
'  crystal,  up  to  live  fowls  and  rabbits  which  are  played  for  at  a 

*  sort  of  dwarf  skittles  (to  their  immense  disturbance,  as  the 

*  ball  rolls  under  them  and  shakes  them  off  their  shelves  and 

*  perches  whenever  it  is  delivered  by  a  vigorous  hand),  are  on  sale 
'  in  this  great  Fair.    And  what  you  may  get  in  the  way  of  orna- 

*  ment  for  twopence,  is  astounding.'  Unhappily  there  came  dark  Imperial 
and  rainy  weather,  and  one  of  the  improvements  f  of  the  Empire  men'tl''^ 
ended,  as  so  many  others  did,  in  slush  and  misery. 

*  Apropos  of  this,  I  may  mention  *  sweeping  it  away  in  this  thorough- 
that  the  little  shaggy  while  terrier  who  *  fare,  it  accumulates  under  the  win- 
came  with  him  from  America,  so  long  *  dows  so  fast,  and  in  such  sludgy 
a  favourite  in  his  household  299)  *  masses,  that  to  get  across  the  road  is 
had  died  of  old  age  a  few  weeks  before  *  to  get  half  over  one's  shoes  in  the 
(5th  of  Oct.  1855)  in  Boulogne.  *  first  outset  of  a  walk.'  ...  'It  is 

t  '  We  have  wet  weather  here — and  *  difficult, '  he  added  (20th  of  Jan. )  '  to 

*  dark  too  for  these  latitudes — and  *  picture  the  change  made  in  this  place 

*  oceans  of  mud.    Although  numbers  '  by  the  removal  of  the  paving  stones 

*  of  men  are  perpetually  scooping  and  *  (too  ready  for  barricatles),  and  ma- 

1'  2 


212 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI I. 


Paris:  Somc  sketches  connected  with  the  Art  Exposition  in  this  winter 
1855-6. 

 —  of  1855,  and  with  the  fulfilment  of  Ary  Scheffer's  design  to  paint 

tion.  the  portrait  of  Dickens,  may  close  these  Paris  pictures.  He  did 
not  think  that  English  art  showed  to  advantage  beside  the 
French.    It  seemed  to  him  small,  shrunken,  insignificant,  *  nig- 

*  gling.'  He  thought  the  general  absence  of  ideas  horribly  ap- 
parent ;  *  and  even  when  one  comes  to  Mulready,  and  sees  two 

English  and  '  old  men  talking  over  a  much-too-prominent  table-cloth,  and 

French.  .  . 

*  reads  the  French  explanation  of  their  proceedings,  "  La  discus- 

*  "  sion  sur  les  principes  de  Docteur  Whiston,"  one  is  dissatisfied. 

*  Somehow  or  other  they  don't  tell.    Even  Leslie's  Sancho  wants 

*  go,  and  Stanny  is  too  much  like  a  set-scene.    It  is  of  no  use 

*  disguising  the  fact  that  what  we  know  to  be  wanting  in  the  men 
'  is  wanting  in  their  works — character,  fire,  purpose,  and  the 
'  power  of  using  the  vehicle  and  the  model  as  mere  means  to  an 

*  end.    There  is  a  horrid  respectability  about  most  of  the  best  of 

*  them — a  little,  finite,  systematic  routine  in  them,  strangely  ex- 
Popuiar      <■  pressive  to  me  of  the  state  of  England  itself.    As  a  mere  fact, 

pictures.  ^  o  / 

'  Frith,  Ward,  and  Egg,  come  out  the  best  in  such  pictures  as  are 

*  here,  and  attract  to  the  greatest  extent.    The  first,  in  the  picture 

*  from  the  Good-natured  Man ;  the  second,  in  the  Royal  Family 

*  in  the  Temple;  the  third,  in  the  Peter  the  Great  first  seeing 
'  Catherine — which  I  always  thought  a  good  picture,  and  in  which 

*  foreigners  evidently  descry  a  sudden  dramatic  touch  that  pleases 
'  them.  There  are  no  end  of  bad  pictures  among  the  French, 
'  but,  Lord !  the  goodness  also  ! — the  fearlessness  of  them  ;  the 

*  cadamization.  It  suits  neither  the  *  exercise  and  meditation)  on  a  scheme 
'  climate  nor  the  soil.    We  are  again  *  I  have  taken  into  my  head,  to  walk 

*  in  a  sea  of  mud.    One  cannot  cross  *  round  the  walls  of  Paris.    It  is  a 

*  the  road  of  the  Champs  Elysees  here,  '  very  odd  walk,  and  will  make  a  good 

*  without  being  half  over  one's  boots.'  '  description.  Yesterday  I  turned  to 
A  few  more  days  brought  a  welcome  *  the  right  when  I  got  outside  the 
change.       '  Three    days    ago    the  *  Barriere  de  I'Etoile,  walked  round 

*  weather  changed  here  in  an  hour,  *  the  wall  till  I  came  to  the  river,  and 

*  and  we  have  had  bright  weather  and  *  then  entered  Paris  beyond  the  site  of 
'  hard  frost  ever  since.    All  the  mud  *  the  Bastille.    To-day  I  mean  to  turn 

*  disappeared  with  marvellous  rapidity,  *  to  the  left  when  I  get  outside  the 

*  and  the  sky  became  Italian.  Taking  '  Barriere,   and  see  what  comes 

*  advantage  of  such  a  happy  change,  I  *  that. ' 

*  Started  off  yesterday  morning  (fpr 


Residence  in  Paris. 


213 


*  bold  drawing ;  the  dashing  conception  j  the  passion  and  action    Paris  : 

*  in  them  !  *    The  Belgian  department  is  full  of  merit.    It  has  the  


*  best  landscape  in  it,  the  best  portrait,  and  the  best  scene  of 

*  homely  life,  to  be  found  in  the  building.    Don't  think  it  a  part  where 

'  of  my  despondency  about  public  affairs,  and  my  fear  that  our  Art  fails 

*  national  glory  is  on  the  decline,  when  I  say  that  mere  form  and 

*  conventionalities  usurp,  in  English  art,  as  in  English  government 
'  and  social  relations,  the  place  of  living  force  and  truth.    I  tried 

*  to  resist  the  impression  yesterday,  and  went  to  the  English 

*  gallery  first,  and  praised  and  admired  with  great  diligence ;  but 

*  it  was  of  no  use.  I  could  not  make  anything  better  of  it  than 
*•  what  I  tell  you.    Of  course  this  is  between  ourselves.  Friend- 

*  ship  is  better  than  criticism,  and  I  shall  steadily  hold  my  tongue. 

*  Discussion  is  worse  than  useless  when  you  cannot  agree  about 

*  what  you  are  going  to  discuss.'  French  nature  is  all  wrong, 
said  the  English  artists  whom  Dickens  talked  to  ;  but  surely  not 
because  it  is  French,  was  his  reply.  The  English  point  of  view 
is  not  the  only  one  to  take  men  and  women  from.  The  French 
pictures  are  *  theatrical,'  was  the  rejoinder.  But  the  French 
themselves  are  a  demonstrative  and  gesticulating  people,  was 
Dickens's  retort ;  and  what  thus  is  rendered  by  their  artists  is  the 
truth  through  an  immense  part  of  the  world.    *  I  never  saw  any- 

*  thing  so  strange.    They  seem  to  me  to  have  got  a  fixed  idea 

*  that  there  is  no  natural  manner  but  the  English  manner  (in  itself 

*  so  exceptional  that  it  is  a  thing  apart,  in  all  countries) ;  and  that 

*  unless  a  Frenchman — represented  as  going  to  the  guillotine  for 

*  example — is  as  calm  as  Clapham,  or  as  respectable  as  Richmond- 

*  hill,  he  cannot  be  right.' 

To  the  sittings  at  Ary  Scheffer's  some  troubles  as  well  as  many 

*  This  was  much  the  tone  of  Edwin  composing  itself  to  gravity  as  he  took 

Landseer  also,  whose  praise  of  Horace  Edwin  by  the  hand,  and  said  in  cordial 

Vemet  was  nothing  short  of  rapture  ;  English  '  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.'  Old  ac- 

and  how  well  I  remember  the  humour  He  stood,  Landseer  told  us,  in  a  recess  l"^'"'-'*"*^** 

of  his  description  of  the  Emperor  on  so  arranged  as  to  produce  a  clear  echo 

the  day  when  the  prizes  were  given,  of  every  word  he  said,  and  this  had 

and,  as  his  old  friend  the  great  painter  a  startling  effect.    In  the  evening  of 

came  up,  the  comical  expression  in  his  that  day  Dickens,  Landseer,  Boxall^ 

face  that  said  plainly,  *  What  a  devilish  Leslie  '  and  three  others '  dined  to- 

'  odd  thing  this  is  altogether,  isn't  it  ?'  gether  in  the  Palais  Royal 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  vii. 


pleasures  were  incident,  and  both  had  mention  in  his  letters. 
'  You  may  faintly  imagine  what  I  have  suffered  from  sitting  to 

*  Scheffer  every  day  since  I  came  back.  He  is  a  most  noble 
'  fellow,  and  I  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  his  society,  and  have 

*  made  all  sorts  of  acquaintances  at  his  house  \  but  I  can  scarcely 
express  how  uneasy  and  unsettled  it  makes  me  to  have  to  sit, 

*  sit,  sit,  with  Liitle  Dorrit  on  my  mind,  and  the  Christmas 
'  business  too — though  that  is  now  happily  dismissed.  On 
'  Monday  afternoon,  and  all  day  on  Wednesday ^  I  am  going  to  sit 
'  again.  And  the  crowning  feature  is,  that  I  do  not  discern  the 
*■  slightest  resemblance,  either  in  his  portrait  or  his  brother's ! 

*  They  both  peg  away  at  me  at  the  same  time.'  The  sittings 
were  varied  by  a  special  entertainment,  when  Scheffer  received 
some  sixty  people  in  his  '  long  atelier ' — *  including  a  lot  of  French 
'  who  say  (but  I  don't  believe  it)  that  they  know  English ' — to 
whom  Dickens,  by  special  entreaty,  read  his  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth. 

That  was  at  the  close  of  November.  January  came,  and  the 
end  of  the  sittings  was  supposed  to  be  at  hand.  *  The  nightmare 
'  portrait  is  nearly  done ;  and  Scheffer  promises  that  an  inter- 

*  minable  sitting  next  Saturday,  beginning  at  lo  o'clock  in  the 
'  morning,  shall  finish  it.  It  is  a  fine  spirited  head,  painted  at 
'  his  very  best,  and  with  a  very  easy  and  natural  appearance  in  it. 

*  But  it  does  not  look  to  me  at  all  like,  nor  does  it  strike  me  that 
'  if  I  saw  it  in  a  gallery  I  should  suppose  myself  to  be  the 
'  original.    It  is  always  possible  that  I  don't  know  my  own  face. 

*  It  is  going  to  be  engraved  here,  in  two  sizes  and  ways — the 

*  mere  head  and  the  whole  thing.'  A  fortnight  later,  the  inter- 
minable sitting  came.  '  Imagine  me  if  you  please  with  No.  5 
'  on  my  head  and  hands,  sitting  to  Scheffer  yesterday  four  hours  ! 

*  At  this  stage  of  a  story,  no  one  can  conceive  how  it  distresses 

*  me.'  Still  this  was  not  the  last.  March  had  come  before  the 
portrait  was  done.     *  Scheffer  finished  yesterday ;  and  Collins, 

*  who  has  a  good  eye  for  pictures,  says  that  there  is  no  man  living 

*  who  could  do  the  painting  about  the  eyes.    As  a  work  of  art  I 

*  see  in  it  spirit  combined  with  perfect  ease,  and  yet  I  don't  see 

*  myself.    So  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  never  do  see  myself. 


Residence  in  Paris. 


2 


*  I  shall  be  very  curious  to  know  the  effect  of  it  upon  you/  P^m^ 

March  had  then  begun ;  and  at  its  close  Dickens,  who  had  mean-  

while  been  in  England,  thus  wrote :  *  I  have  not  seen  Scheffer 

*  since  I  came  back,  but  he  told  Catherine  a  few  days  ago  that  he  Scheffer'^ 

*  was  not  satisfied  with  the  likeness  after  all,  and  thought  he  must  opinion 

of  the 

*  do  more  to  it.    My  own  impression  of  it,  you  remember  ? '    In  likenr-*. 
these  few  words  he  anticipated  the  impression  made  upon  myself. 

I  was  not  satisfied  with  it.  The  picture  had  much  merit,  but  not 
as  a  portrait.  From  its  very  resemblance  in  the  eyes  and  mouth 
one  derived  the  sense  of  a  general  unlikeness.  But  the  work  of 
the  artist's  brother,  Henri  Scheffer,  painted  from  the  same  sittings, 
was  in  all  ways  greatly  inferior. 

Before  Dickens  left  Paris  in  May  he  had  completed  the  arrange- 
ments  for  a  published  translation  of  all  his  books,"*  and  had  sent 
over  two  descriptions  that  the  reader  most  anxious  to  follow  him 


*  *  I  forget  whether '  (6th  of  Jan. 
1856)  *I  have  already  told  you  that  I 

*  have  received  a  proposal  from  a  re- 
'  sponsible  bookselling  house  here,  for 

*  a  complete  edition,  authorized  by 

*  myself,  of  a  French  translation  of  all 

*  my  books.    The  terms  involve  ques- 

*  tions  of  space  and  amount  of  matter ; 

*  but  I  should  say,  at  a  rough  calcula- 

*  tion,  that  I  shall  get  about  ^^300  by 
*it — perhaps  ^^50  more.'     *I  have 

*  arranged'  (30th  of  Jan.)  'with  the 

*  French  bookselHng  house  to  receive, 

*  by  monthly  payments  of  £\o,  the  sum 

*  of  £/^o  for  the  right  to  translate  all 

*  my  books  :  that  is,  what  they  call  my 

*  Romances,  and  what  I  call  my  Stories. 

*  This  does  not  include  the  Christmas 

*  Books,    American    Notes,  Pictures 

*  from  Italy,  or  the  Sketches  ;  but  they 

*  are  to  have  the  right  to  translate 

*  them  for  extra  payments  if  they 
'  choose.     In  consideration  of  this 

*  venture  as  to  the  unprotected  pro- 

*  perty,  I  cede  them    the  right  of 

*  translating  all  future  Romances  at  a 

*  thousand  francs  (^'40)  each.  Con- 

*  sidering  that  I  get  so  much  for  what 

*  is  otherwise  worth  nothing,  and  get 


*  my  books  before  so  clever  and  impor- 

*  tant  a  people,  I  think  this  is  not  a 

*  bad  move  ? '    The  first  friend  with  M.  von 
whom  he  advised  about  it,  I  should  Tauchn,t. 
mention,  was  the  famous  Leipzig  pub- 
lisher, M.  Tauchnitz,  in  whose  judg- 
ment, as  well  as  in  his  honour  and 

good  faith,  he  had  implicit  reliance, 
and  who  thought  the  offer  fair.  Or 
the  17th  of  April  he  wrote  :  *0n  Mon- 

*  day  I  am  going  to  dine  with  all  my 

*  translators  at  Hachette's,  the  book- 

*  seller  who  has  made  the  bargain  for 
'  the  complete  edition,  and  who  began 

*  this  week  to  pay  his  monthly  ;/^40  for 

*  a  year.    I  don't  mean  to  go  out  any  prenci 

'  more.  Please  to  imagine  me  in  the  Jr^^'^^f ' 
'  midst  of  my  French  dressers.'  He  Dicken*. 
wrote  an  address  for  the  edition  in 
which  he  praised  the  liberality  of  his 
publishers  and  expressed  his  pride  in 
being  so  presented  to  the  French 
people  whom  he  sincerely  loved  and 
honoured.  Another  word  may  be 
added.    *  It  is  rather  appropriate  that 

*  the  French  translation  edition  will 

*  pay  my  rent  for  the  whole  year,  and 
'  travelling  charges  to  boot. ' — 24th  of 
Feb.  1856. 


2l6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VI L 


Paris  •  to  a  ncw  scenc  would  perhaps  be  sorry  to  lose.  A  Duchess  was 
— '^^^  '  -  murdered  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  *  The  murder  over  the  way 
murdered.    '  (the  third  or  fourth  event  of  that  nature  in  the  Champs  Elysees 

*  since  we  have  been  here)  seems  to  disclose  the  strangest  state  of 

*  things.    The  Duchess  who  is  murdered  lived  alone  in  a  great 

*  house  which  was  always  shut  up,  and  passed  her  time  entirely 

*  in  the  dark.    In  a  little  lodge  outside  lived  a  coachman  (the 

*  murderer),  and  there  had  been  a  long  succession  of  coachmen 

*  who  had  been  unable  to  stay  there,  and  upon  whom,  whenever 

*  they  asked  for  their  wages,  she  plunged  out  with  an  immense 
'  knife,  by  way  of  an  immediate  settlement.  The  coachman 
'  never  had  anything  to  do,  for  the  coach  hadn't  been  driven  out 
'  for  years  ;  neither  would  she  ever  allow  the  horses  to  be  taken 
'  out  for  exercise.  Between  the  lodge  and  the  house,  is  a 
'  miserable  bit  of  garden,  all  overgrown  with  long  rank  grass, 
'  weeds,  and  nettles ;  and  in  this,  the  horses  used  to  be  taken  out 

*  to  swim — in  a  dead  green  vegetable  sea,  up  to  their  haunches. 

*  On  the  day  of  the  murder,  there  was  a  great  crowd,  of  course ; 
Arrival  of     *  and  in  the  midst  of  it  up  comes  the  Duke  her  husband  (from 

the  Duke.  ^  ,  ^  , 

*  whom  she  was  separated),  and  rings  at  the  gate.    The  police 

*  open  the  grate.  "  C'est  vrai  done,"  says  the  Duke,  "  que 
'  "  Madame  la  Duchesse  n'est  plus  ?  " — "  C'est  trop  vrai,  Mon- 
'  "seigneur." — "Tant  mieux,"  says  the  Duke,  and  walks  oif 
'  deliberately,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  assemblage.' 

The  second  description  relates  an  occurrence  in  England  of 
only  three  years  previous  date,  belonging  to  that  wildly  improbable 
Fact  too      class  of  realities  which  Dickens  always  held,  with  Fielding,  to  be 

improbable  .  .  , 

for  fiction,  (propcrly)  closed  to  fiction.  Only,  he  would  add,  critics  should 
not  be  so  eager  to  assume  that  what  had  never  happened  to 
themselves  could  not,  by  any  human  possibility,  ever  be  supposed 
to  have  happened  to  anybody  else.  *  B.  was  with  me  the  other 
'  day,  and,  among  other  things  that  he  told  me,  described  an 
'  extraordinary  adventure  in  his  life,  at  a  place  not  a  thousand 
'  miles  from  my  "  property "  at  Gadshill,  three  years  ago.  He 

A  chance     *  Uved  at  the  tavern  and  was  sketching  one  day  when  an  open 

*  carriage  came  by  with  a  gentleman  and  lady  in  it.  He  was 
'  sitting  in  the  same  place  working  at  the  same  sketch,  next  day, 


Residence  in  Paris. 


217 


*  when  it  came  by  again.  So,  another  day,  when  the  gentleman 
'  got  out  and  introduced  himself.    Fond  of  art  j  lived  at  the 

*  great  house  yonder,  which  perhaps  he  knew ;  was  an  Oxford 

*  man  and  a  Devonshire  squire,  but  not  resident  on  his  estate,  for 

*  domestic  reasons ;  would  be  glad  to  see  him  to  dinner  to- 

*  morrow.    He  went,  and  found  among  other  things  a  very  fine 

*  library.    "  At  your  disposition,"  said  the  Squire,  to  whom  he 

*  had  now  described  himself  and  his  pursuits.  "  Use  it  for  your 
'  "writing  and  drawing.    Nobody  else  uses  it."    He  stayed  in 

*  the  house  six  months.  The  lady  was  a  mistress,  aged  five-and- 
'  twenty,  and  very  beautiful,  drinking  her  life  suvay.    The  Squire 

*  was  drunken,  and  utterly  depraved  and  wicked  ;  but  an  excellent 

*  scholar,  an  admirable  linguist,  and  a  great  theologian.  Two 

*  other  mad  visitors  stayed  the  six  months.  One,  a  man  well 
'  known  in  Paris  here,  who  goes  about  the  world  with  a  crimson 

*  silk  stocking  in  his  breast  pocket,  containing  a  tooth-brush  and 

'  an  immense  quantity  of  ready  money.    The  other,  a  college  a  Strang 

interior. 

*  chum  of  the  Squire's,  now  ruined ;  with  an  insatiate  thirst  for 

*  drink ;  who  constantly  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  crept 

*  down  to  the  dining-room,  and  emptied  all  the  decanters  .  .  .  B. 

*  stayed  on  in  the  place,  under  a  sort  of  devilish  fascination  to 

*  discover  what  might  come  of  it  .  .  .  Tea  or  coffee  never  seen 

*  in  the  house,  and  very  seldom  water.    Beer,  champagne,  and 

*  brandy,  were  the  three  drinkables.    Breakfast :  leg  of  mutton, 

*  champagne,  beer,  and  brandy.    Lunch  :  shoulder  of  mutton, 

*  champagne,  beer,  and  brandy.    Dinner:  every  conceivable  dish 

*  (Squire's  income,  £^,000  a-year),  champagne,  beer,  and  brandy, 

*  The  Squire  had  married  a  woman  of  the  town  from  whom  he  Persons 

*  was  now  separated,  but  by  whom  he  had  a  daughter.    The  f^'"^^^'"^ 

*  mother,  to  spite  the  father,  had  bred  the  daughter  in  every 

*  conceivable  vice.    Daughter,  then  13,  came  from  school  once  a 

*  month.    Intensely  coarse  in  talk,  and  always  drunk.    As  they 

*  drove  about  the  country  in  two  open  carriages,  the  drunken 

*  mistress  would  be  perpetually  tumbling  out  of  one,  and  the 

*  drunken  daughter  perpetually  tumbling  out  of  the  other.  At 

*  last  the  drunken  mistress  drank  her  stomach  away,  and  began  to  End  of  th« 

*  die  on  the  sofa.    Got  worse  and  worse,  and  was  always  raving 


2l8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  VII. 


^855^6     *  about  Somebody's  where  she  had  once  been  a  lodger,  and  per- 
^  pg^yg^jjy  shrieking  that  she  would  cut  somebody  else's  heart  out. 
and  of  the    '  At  last  she  died  on  the  sofa,  and,  after  the  funeral,  the  party 

*  broke  up.    A  few  months  ago,  B.  met  the  man  with  the  crimson 

*  silk  stocking  at  Brighton,  who  told  him  that  the  Squire  was 

*  dead  "  of  a  broken  heart "  ;  that  the  chum  was  dead  of  delirium 

*  tremens ;  and  that  the  daughter  was  heiress  to  the  fortune.  He 

*  told  me  all  this,  which  I  fully  believe  to  be  true,  without  any 

*  embellishment — ^just  in  the  off-hand  way  in  which  I  have  told  it 

*  to  you.' 

Dickens  left  Paris  at  the  end  of  April,  and,  after  the  summer 
in  Boulogne  which  has  been  described,  passed  the  winter  in 
London,  giving  to  his  theatrical  enterprise  nearly  all  the  time  that 
Little  Dorrit  did  not  claim  from  him.  His  book  was  finished  in 
the  following  spring;  was  inscribed  to  Clarkson  Stanfield;  and 
now  claims  to  have  something  said  about  it.  The  theatrical 
enterprise  to  be  at  the  same  time  related,  with  what  it  led  to, 
will  be  found  to  open  a  new  phase  in  the  life  of  Dickens. 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 

PUBLIC  READER. 
1856— 1867.     ^T.  44—55- 

I.  Little  Dorrit,  and  a  Lazy  Tour. 
IL  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 
in.  Gadshill  Place. 
IV.  First  Paid  Readings. 

V.  All  the  Year  Round  and  Uncommercial  Traveller. 
VI.  Second  Series  of  Readings, 
VII.  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


I. 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  AND  A  LAZY  TOUR. 
1855— 1857. 

Between  Hard  Times  and  Little  Dorrit.  Dickens's  principal 

London : 

literary  work  had  been  the  contribution  to  Household  Words  of  1855-7. 
two  tales  for  Christmas  (1854  and  1855)  which  his  readings 
afterwards  made  widely  popular,  the  Story  of  Richard  Double- 
dick,*  and  Boots  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn.  In  the  latter  was  g'fj^^*'"*' 
related,  with  a  charming  naturalness  and  spirit,  the  elopement,  to 
get  married  at  Gretna  Green,  of  two  little  children  of  the  mature 
respective  ages  of  eight  and  seven.  At  Christmas  1855  came  out 
the  first  number     Little  Dorrit^  and  in  April  1857  the  last. 

The  book  took  its  origin  from  the  notion  he  had  of  a  leading  Nobody's 

.... 

man  for  a  story  who  should  bring  about  all  the  mischief  in  it,  lay 
it  all  on  Providence,  and  say  at  every  fresh  calamity,  *  Well,  it's 

*  a  mercy,  however,  nobody  was  to  blame  you  know  ! '  The  title 
first  chosen,  out  of  many  suggested,  was  Nobody's  Fault ;  and 
four  numbers  had  been  written,  of  which  the  first  was  on  the  eve 
of  appearing,  before  this  was  changed.  When  about  to  fall  to 
work  he  excused  himself  from  an  engagement  he  should  have 
kept  because  '  the  story  is  breaking  out  all  round  me,  and  I  am 

*  going  off  down  the  railroad  to  humour  it.*    The  humouring  was 


*  The  framework  for  this  sketch 
was  a  graphic  description,  also  done 
by  Dickens,  of  the  celebrated  Charity 
at  Rochester  founded  in  the  sixteenth 
century  by  Richard  Watts,   *  for  six 

*  poor    travellers,   who,   not  being 

*  Rogues  or  Proctors,  may  receive 
'  gratis  for  one  night,  lodging,  enter- 

*  tainment,  and  four  pence  each.'  A 
quaint  monu-ment  to  Watts  is  the 
most  prominent  object  on  the  wall  of 
the  sculh-west  transept  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and  underneath  it  is  now  placed 
a  brass  thus  inscribed  :    '  Charles 


*  Dickens.     Bom   at   Portsmouth,  Tablet  in 

*  seventh  ot  February  1812.  Died  at  crthTdS 
'  Gadshill  Place  by  Rochester,  ninth 

*  of  June  1870.  Buried  in  Westminster 

*  Abbey.     To  connect  his  memory 

*  with  the  scenes  in  which  his  earliest 

*  and  his  latest  years  were  passed,  and 

*  with  the  associations  of  Rochester 

*  Cathedral  and   its  neighbourhood 

*  which  extended  over  all  his  life,  this 
'  Tablet,  with  the  sanction  of  the 

*  Dean  and  Chapter,  is  placed  by  his 
'  Executors,' 


222 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [BookVIII. 


London:  a  little  difficult,  however ;  and  such  indications  of  a  droop  in  his 
1855-7. 

 invention  as  presented  themselves  m  portions  of  Bleak  House^ 

were  noticeable  again.    'As  to  the  story  I  am  in  the  second 

*  number,  and  last  night  and  this  morning  had  half  a  mind  to 
'  begin  again,  and  work  in  what  I  have  done,  afterwards '  (Aug. 
19th).  It  had  occurred  to  him,  that,  by  making  the  fellow- 
travellers  at  once  known  to  each  other,  as  the  opening  of  the 
story  stands,  he  had  missed  an  effect.  *  It  struck  me  that  it 
'  would  be  a  new  thing  to  show  people  coming  together,  in  a 

*  chance  way,  as  fellow-travellers,  and  being  in  the  same  place, 
rpeSg'^     '  ignorant  of  one  another,  as  happens  in  life ;  and  to  connect  them 

*  afterwards,  and  to  make  the  waiting  for  that  connection  a  part 
'  of  the  interest.'  The  change  was  not  made  j  but  the  mention 
of  it  was  one  of  several  intimations  to  me  of  the  altered  conditions 
under  which  he  was  writing,  and  that  the  old,  unstinted,  irre- 
pressible flow  of  fancy  had  received  temporary  check.  In  this 
view  I  have  found  it  very  interesting  to  compare  the  original 
notes,  which  as  usual  he  prepared  for  each  number  of  the  tale, 
and  which  with  the  rest  are  in  my  possession,  with  those  of 
Chuzzlewit  or  Copperfield ;  observing  in  the  former  the  labour 
and  pains,  and  in  the  latter  the  lightness  and  confidence  of 
handling.*  *  I  am  just  now  getting  to  work  on  number  three : 
'  sometimes  enthusiastic,  more  often  dull  enough.    There  is  an 

*  enormous  outlay  in  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea  chapter,  in  the 

*  way  of  getting  a  great  lot  of  matter  into  a  small  space.    I  am 
How  the     '  not  quite  resolved,  but  I  have  a  great  idea  of  overwhelming  that 

«tory  grew. 

*  family  with  wealth.     Their  condition  would  be  very  curious. 

*  I  can  make  Dorrit  very  strong  in  the  story,  I  hope'  (Sept.  i6th). 
The  Marshalsea  part  of  the  tale  undoubtedly  was  excellent,  and 
there  was  masterly  treatment  of  character  in  the  contrasts  of  the 
brothers  Dorrit ;  but  of  the  family  generally  it  may  be  said  that 
its  least  important  members  had  most  of  his  genius  in  them. 
The  younger  of  the  brothers,  the  scapegrace  son,  and  *  Fanny 

*  So  curious   a  contrast,  taking  examples   taken  express  very  fairly 

Copperfield  for  the  purpose,  I  have  the  general  character  of  the  Notes  ta 

thought  worth  giving  in  fac-simile  ;  the  two  books  respectively, 
and  can  assure  the  reader  that  the 


§  I.J         Little  Dorrit,  and  a  Lazy  Tour, 


225 


*  dear/  are  perfectly  real  people  in  wriat  makes  them  unattractive  ;  London: 
but  what  is  meant  for  attractiveness  in  the  heroine  becomes  often  ^ 


The 

tiresome  by  want  of  reality.  Domts. 

The  first  number  appeared  in  December  1855,  and  on  its 
sale  there  was  an  exultant  note.    *  Little  Dorrit  has  beaten  even 

*  Bleak  House  out  of  the  field.    It  is  a  most  tremendous  start, 

*  and  I  am  overjoyed  at  it ;  *  to  which  he  added,  writing  from 
Paris  on  the  6th  of  the  month  following,  *  You  know  that  they 

*  had  sold  35,000  of  number  two  on  new  year's  day.'  He  was 
still  in  Paris  on  the  day  of  the  appearance  of  that  portion  of  the 
tale  by  which  it  will  always  be  most  vividly  remembered,  and  thus 
wrote  on  the  30th  of  January  1856  :  *  I  have  a  grim  pleasure 

*  upon  me  to-night  in  thinking  that  the  Circumlocution  Office 

*  sees  the  light,  and  in  wondering  what  effect  it  will  make.    But  Circum- 

*  my  head  really  stings  with  the  visions  of  the  book,  and  I  am  office. 

*  going,  as  we  French  say,  to  disembarrass  it  by  plunging  out 

*  into  some  of  the  strange  places  I  glide  into  of  nights  in  these 

*  latitudes.'  The  Circumlocution  heroes  led  to  the  Society 
scenes,  the  Hampton-court  dowager-sketches,  and  Mr.  Gowan  ; 
all  parts  of  one  satire  levelled  against  prevailing  political  and 
social  vices.  Aim  had  been  taken,  in  the  course  of  it,  at  some 
living  originals,  disguised  sufficiently  from  recognition  to  enable 
him  to  make  his  thrust  more  sure ;  but  there  was  one  exception 
self-revealed.  *  I  had  the  general  idea,'  he  wrote  while  engaged  ^^^P"^ 
on  the  sixth  number,  '  of  the  Society  business  before  the  Sadleir  design. 

*  affair,  but  I  shaped  Mr.  Merdle  himself  out  of  that  precious 

*  rascality.    Society,  the  Circumlocution  Office,  and  Mr.  Gowan, 

*  are  of  course  three  parts  of  one  idea  and  design.    Mr.  Merdle's 

*  complaint,  which  you  will  find  in  the  end  to  be  fraud  and 

*  forgery,  came  into  my  mind  as  the  last  drop  in  the  silver 

*  cream-jug  on  Hampstead-heath.    I  shall  beg,  when  you  have 

*  read  the  present  number,  to  enquire  whether  you  consider  "  Bar  " 

*  an  instance,  in  reference  to  K  F,  of  a  suggested  likeness  in  not 

*  many  touches?'    The  likeness  no  one  could  mistake;  and, 
though  that  particular  Bar  has  since  been  moved  into  a  higher  From  iha 
and  happier  sphere,  Westminster-hall  is  in  no  danger  of  losing 

*  the  insinuating  Jury-droop,  and  persuasive  double-eyeglass,'  by 

VOL.   II.  Q 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VI 1 1. 

which  this  keen  observer  could  express  a  type  of  character  in  half 
a  dozen  words. 

Of  the  other  portions  of  the  book  that  had  a  strong  personal 
interest  for  him  I  have  spoken  on  a  former  page  {ante,  i.  56),  and 
I  will  now  only  add  an  allusion  of  his  own.  *  There  are  some 
'  things  in  Flora  in  number  seven  that  seem  to  me  to  be  extra- 
'  ordinarily  droll,  with  something  serious  at  the  bottom  of  them 

*  after  all.    Ah,  well !  was  there  not  something  very  serious  in  it 
once?    I  am  glad  to  think  of  being  in  the  country  with  the  long 

'  summer  mornings  as  I  approach  number  ten,  where  I  have 

*  finally  resolved  to  make  Dorrit  rich.  It  should  be  a  very  fine 
'  point  in  the  story  .  .  .  Nothing  in  Flora  made  me  laugh  so 

*  much  as  the  confusion  of  ideas  between  gout  flying  upwards, 

*  and  its  soaring  with  Mr.  F         to  another  sphere '  (April  7th). 

He  had  himself  no  inconsiderable  enjoyment  also  of  Mr.  F.'s 
Aunt ;  and  in  the  old  rascal  of  a  patriarch,  the  smooth-surfaced 
Casby,  and  other  surroundings  of  poor  Flora,  there  was  fun 
enough  to  float  an  argosy  of  second-rates,  assuming  such  to  have 
formed  the  staple  of  the  tale.  It  would  be  far  from  fair  to  say 
they  did.  The  defect  in  the  book  was  less  the  absence  of 
excellent  character  or  keen  observation,  than  the  want  of  ease 
and  coherence  among  the  figures  of  the  story,  and  of  a  central 
interest  in  the  plan  of  it.  The  agencies  that  bring  about  its 
catastrophe,  too,  are  less  agreeable  even  than  in  Bleak  House ; 
and,  most  unlike  that  well-constructed  story,  some  of  the  most 
deeply  considered  things  that  occur  in  it  have  really  little  to  do 
with  the  tale  itself  The  surface-painting  of  both  Miss  Wade  and 
Tattycoram,  to  take  an  instance,  is  anything  but  attractive,  yet 
there  is  under  it  a  rare  force  of  likeness  in  the  unlikeness  between 
the  two  which  has  much  subtlety  of  intention ;  and  they  must  both 
have  had,  as  well  as  Mr.  Gowan  himself,  a  striking  effect  in  the 
novel,  if  they  had  been  made  to  contribute  in  a  more  essential 
way  to  its  interest  or  development.  The  failure  nevertheless  had 
not  been  for  want  of  care  and  study,  as  well  of  his  own  design  as 
of  models  by  masters  in  his  art.  A  happier  hint  of  apology,  for 
example,  could  hardly  be  given  for  Fielding's  introduction  of 
such  an  episode  as  the  Man  of  the  Hill  between  the  youth  and 


§  I.]         Little  Dorr  it,  and  a  Lazy  Tour. 


227 


manhood  of  Blifil  and  Tom  Jones,  than  is  suggested  by  what  Lom^^on: 

Dickens  wrote  of  the  least  interesting  part  of  Little  Dorrit.  In  

the  mere  form,  Fielding  of  course  was  only  following  the  lead  of 
Cervantes  and  Le  Sage ;  but  Dickens  rightly  judged  his  purpose 
also  to  have  been,  to  supply  a  kind  of  connection  between  the 
episode  and  the  story.    '  I  don't  see  the  practicability  of  making 

*  the  History  of  a  Self-Tormentor,  with  which  I  took  great  pains, 

*  a  written  narrative.  But  I  do  see  the  possibility '  (he  saw  the  Episodes  in 
other  practicability  before  the  number  was  published)  *  of  making 

*  it  a  chapter  by  itself,  which  might  enable  me  to  dispense  with 

*  the  necessity  of  the  turned  commas.  Do  you  think  that  would 
'  be  better  ?    I  have  no  doubt  that  a  great  part  of  Fielding's 

*  reason  for  the  introduced  story,  and  Smollett's  also,  was,  that  it 

*  is  sometimes  really  impossible  to  present,  in  a  full  book,  the 
'  idea  it  contains  (which  yet  it  may  be  on  all  accounts  desirable 

*  to  present),  without  supposing  the  reader  to  be  possessed  of 
'  almost  as  much  romantic  allowance  as  would  put  him  on  a  level 

*  with  the  writer.    In  Miss  Wade  I  had  an  idea,  which  I  thought 

*  a  new  one,  of  making  the  introduced  story  so  fit  into  surround- 

*  ings  impossible  of  separation  from  the  main  story,  as  to  make 
'  the  blood  of  the  book  circulate  through  both.  But  I  can  only 
'  suppose,  from  what  you  say,  that  I  have  not  exactly  succeeded 
'  in  this.' 

Shortly  after  the  date  of  his  letter  he  was  in  London  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  purchase  of  Gadshill  Place,  and  he  went 
over  to  the  Borough  to  see  what  traces  were  left  of  the  prison  of 
which  his  first  impression  was  taken  in  his  boyhood,  which  had 
played  so  important  a  part  in  this  latest  novel,  and  every  brick 
and  stone  of  which  he  had  been  able  to  rebuild  in  his  book  by 
the  mere  vividness  of  his  marvellous  m^emory.    'Went  to  the 

*  Borough  yesterday  morning  before  going  to  Gadshill,  to  see  if  I  Remains  m 

*  could  find  any  ruins  of  the  Marshalsea.    Found  a  great  part  of  vLltei 

*  the  original  building — now  "  Marshalsea  Place."    Found  the 

*  rooms  that  have  been  in  my  mind's  eye  in  the  story.  Found, 
'  nursing  a  very  big  boy,  a  very  small  boy,  who,  seeing  me 
'  standing  on  the  Marshalsea  pavement,  looking  about,  told  me 

*  how  it  all  used  to  be.    God  knows  how  he  learned  it  (for  he 


228 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VI 1 1 


London  :  *  was  a  world  too  young  to  know  anything  about  it),  but  he 
  '  was  right  enough.  .  .  There  is  a  room  there — still  standing, 

A  scene  of  ° 

his^boy-      <  to  my  amazement — that  I  think  of  taking  !    It  is  the  room 

*  through  which  the  ever-memorable  signers  of  Captain  Porter's 
'  petition  filed  off  in  my  boyhood'  {ante,  i.  35).  *The  spikes 
'  are  gone,  and  the  wall  is  lowered,  and  anybody  can  go  out 

*  now  who  likes  to  go,  and  is  not  bedridden ;  and  I  said  to  the 
'  boy  Who  lives  there?"  and  he  said,  "  Jack  Pithick."  "  Who 
'  "  is  Jack  Pithick  ?  "  I  asked  him.  And  he  said,  "  Joe  Pithick's 
'  "  uncle." ' 

Mention  was  made  of  this  visit  in  the  preface  that  appeared 
with  the  last  number  ;  and  all  it  is  necessary  to  add  of  the  com- 
pleted book  will  be,  that,  though  in  the  humour  and  satire  of  its 
finer  parts  not  unworthy  of  him,  and  though  it  had  the  clear 
design,  worthy  of  him  in  an  especial  degree,  of  contrasting,  both 
in  private  and  in  public  life,  and  in  poverty  equally  as  in  wealth, 
duty  done  and  duty  not  done,  it  made  no  material  addition  to  his 
?fThr^°"  reputation.  His  public,  however,  showed  no  falling-oif  in  its 
novel.  enormous  numbers ;  and  what  is  said  in  one  of  his  letters, 
noticeable  for  this  touch  of  character,  illustrates  his  anxiety  to 
avoid  any  set-off  from  the  disquiet  that  critical  discourtesies 
might  give.    '  I  was  ludicrously  foiled  here  the  other  night  in  a 

*  resolution  I  have  kept  for  twenty  years  not  to  know  of  any 

*  attack  upon  myself,  by  stumbling,  before  I  could  pick  myself 
'  up,  on  a  short  extract  in  the  Globe  from  Blackwood's  Magazine, 

A  criticism   <  informing  me  that  Llt/le  Dorrit  is  "  Twaddle."    I  was  suffi- 

and  its  set-  ° 

off-  *  ciently  put  out  by  it  to  be  angry  with  myself  for  being  such  a 

*  fool,  and  then  pleased  with  myself  for  having  so  long  been 
'  constant  to  a  good  resolution.'  There  was  a  scene  that  made 
itself  part  of  history  not  four  months  after  his  death,  which,  if  he 
could  have  lived  to  hear  of  it,  might  have  more  than  consoled 
him.  It  was  the  meeting  of  Bismarck  and  Jules  Favre  under  the 
walls  of  Paris.  The  Prussian  was  waiting  to  open  fire  on  the 
city;  the  Frenchman  was  engaged  in  the  arduous  task  of 
showing  the  wisdom  of  not  doing  it ;  and  '  we  learn,'  say  the 
papers  of  the  day,  *  that  while  the  two  eminent  statesmen  were 

*  trying  to  find  a  basis  of  negotiation,  Von  Moltke  was  seated  in 


§  i.'j         Little  Dorrtty  and  a  La^y  Tour, 


229 


*  a  comer  readino:  Little  Dorrit.^*    Who  will  doubt  that  the   London  : 

°  ,  1856-7. 

chapter  on  How  Not  to  do  it  was  then  absorbing  the  old  

soldier's  attention  ? 


Preparations  for  the  private  play  had  gone  on  incessantly  up  Christmas 
to  Christmas,  and,  in  turning  the  schoolroom  into  a  theatre,  preparing, 
sawing  and  hammering  worthy  of  Babel  continued  for  weeks. 
The  priceless  help  of  Stanfield  had  again  been  secured,  and  I 
remember  finding  him  one  day  at  Tavistock  House  in  the  act  of 
upsetting  some  elaborate  arrangements  by  Dickens,  with  a  pro- 
scenium before  him  made  up  of  chairs,  and  the  scenery  planned 
out  with  walking-sticks.    But  Dickens's  art  in  a  matter  of  this 
kind  was  to  know  how  to  take  advice  ;  and  no  suggestion  came 
to  him  that  he  was  not  ready  to  act  upon,  if  it  presented  the 
remotest  likelihood.    In  one  of  his  great  difficulties  of  obtaining 
more  space,  for  audience  as  well  as  actors,  he  was  told  that 
Mr.  Cooke  of  Astley's  was  a  man  of  much  resource  in  that  way ;  a  visit 
and  to  Mr.  Cooke  he  applied,  with  the  following  result.    *  One  Astiey's. 

*  of  the  finest  things'  (i8th  of  October  1856)  *I  have  ever  seen 

*  in  my  life  of  that  kind  was  the  arrival  of  my  friend  Mr.  Cooke 

*  one  morning  this  week,  in  an  open  phaeton  drawn  by  two  white 

*  ponies  with  black  spots  all  over  them  (evidently  stencilled),  who 

*  came  in  at  the  gate  with  a  little  jolt  and  a  rattle,  exactly  as 

*  they  come  into  the  Ring  when  they  draw  anything,  and  went 

*  round  and  round  the  centre  bed  of  the  front  court,  apparently 

*  looking  for  the  clown.    A  multitude  of  boys  who  felt  them  to 

*  be  no  common  ponies  rushed  up  in  a  breathless  state — twined 

*  themselves  like  ivy  about  the  railings — and  were  only  deterred 

*  from  storming  the  enclosure  by  the  glare  of  the  Inimitable's 

*  eye.    Some  of  these  boys  had  evidently  followed  from  Astley's. 

*  I  grieve  to  add  that  my  friend,  being  take  1  to  the  point  of 

*  difficulty,  had  no  sort  of  suggestion  in  him ;  no  gleam  of  an 

*  idea;  and  might  just  as  well  have  been  the  popular  minister 

*  from  the  Tabernacle  in  Tottenham  Court  Road.    All  he  could 

*  say  was — answering  me,  posed  in  the  garden,  precisely  as  if  I 

•  I  quote  the  Paris  letter  of  the  25th  of  September  1870,  which  appeared 
In  the  Pall  Maf,  Gazette  of  the  3rd  of  October. 


230 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dicke^is,  [Book  VI II. 


London ; 
1856-7. 


Theatre- 
majcing. 


Scene- 
painting. 


Rush  for 
places. 


At  Gads- 
hilL 


*  were  the  clown  asking  him  a  riddle  at  night — that  two  of  their 
'  stable  tents  would  be  home  in  November,  and  that  they  were 

*  "  20  foot  square,"  and  I  was  heartily  welcome  to  'em.    Also,  he 

*  said,  "  You  might  have  half  a  dozen  of  my  trapezes,  or  my 
'  "  middle-distance- tables,  but  they're  all  6  foot  and  all  too 
'  "  low  sir."    Since  then,  I  have  arranged  to  do  it  in  my  own 

*  way,  and  with  my  own  carpenter.  You  will  be  surprised  by 
'  the  look  of  the  place.  It  is  no  more  like  the  schoolroom  than 
'  it  is  like  the  sign  of  the  Salutation  Inn  at  Ambleside  in 
'  Westmoreland.    The  sounds  in  the  house  remind  me,  as  to  the 

*  present  time,  of  Chatham  dockyard — as  to  a  remote  epoch, 

*  of  the  building  of  Noah's  ark.  Joiners  are  never  out  of  the 
'  house,  and  the  carpenter  appears  to  be  unsettled  (or  settled) 
'  for  life.' 

Of  course  time  did  not  mend  matters,  and  as  Christmas  ap- 
proached the  house  was  in  a  state  of  siege.  '  All  day  long,  a 
'  labourer  heats  size  over  the  fire  in  a  great  crucible.    We  eat 

*  it,  drink  it,  breathe  it,  and  smell  it.  Seventy  paint-pots  (which 
'  came  in  a  van)  adorn  the  stage ;  and  thereon  may  be  beheld, 

*  Stanny,  and  three  Dansons  (from  the  Surrey  Zoological  Gardens), 

*  all  painting  at  once  ! !    Meanwhile,  Telbin,  in  a  secluded  bower 

*  in  Brewer-street,  Golden-square,  plies  his  part  of  the  little 
'  undertaking.'  How  worthily  it  turned  out  in  the  end,  the 
excellence  of  the  performances  and  the  delight  of  the  audi- 
ences, became  known  to  all  London;  and  the  pressure  for 
admittance  at  last  took  the  form  of  a  tragi-comedy,  composed 
of  ludicrous  makeshifts  and  gloomy  disappointments,  with  which 
even  Dickens's  resources  could  not  deal.  '  My  audience  is  now 
'  93,'  he  wrote  one  day  in  despair,  'and  at  least  10  will  neither 

*  hear  nor  see.'  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  increase  the 
number  of  nights ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  20th  of  January 
he  described  *  the  workmen  smashing  the  last  atoms  of  the 
'  theatre.' 

His  book  was  finished  soon  after  at  Gadshill  Place,  to  be 
presently  described,  which  he  had  purchased  the  previous  year, 
and  taken  possession  of  in  February ;  subscribing  himself,  in  the 
letter  announcing  the  fact,  as  '  the  Kentish  Freeholder  on  his 


§1.] 


Little  Dorr  it,  and  a  Lazy  Toicr, 


231 


*  native  heath,  his  name  Protection.'  *  The  new  abode  occupied  ^^g^^^^^^*  • 
him  in  various  ways  in  the  early  part  ot  the  summer  ;  and  Hans  ~ 
Andersen  the  Dane  had  just  arrived  upon  a  visit  to  him  there, 

when  Douglas  Jerrold's  unexpected  death  befell.  It  was  a  shock 
to  every  one,  and  an  especial  grief  to  Dickens.  Jerrold's  wit,  ^^^^^^ 
and  the  bright  shrewd  intellect  that  had  so  many  triumphs,  need 
no  celebration  from  me ;  but  the  keenest  of  satirists  was  one  of 
the  kindhest  of  men,  and  Dickens  had  a  fondness  for  Jerrold  as 
genuine  as  his  admiration  for  him.  *  I  chance  to  know  a  good 
'  deal  about  the  poor  fellow's  illness,  for  I  was  with  him  on  the 

*  last  day  he  was  out.    It  was  ten  days  ago,  when  we  dined  at 

*  a  dinner  given  by  Russell  at  Greenwich.  He  was  complaining 
'  much  when  we  met,  said  he  had  been  sick  three  days,  and 

*  attributed  it  to  the  inhaling  of  white  paint  from  his  stud}^ 

*  window.    I  did  not  think  much  of  it  at  the  moment,  as  we  were 

*  very  social ;  but  while  we  walked  through  Leicester-square  he  Last  meet- 

ing of 

'  suddenly  fell  into  a  white,  hot,  sick  perspiration,  and  had  to  ^^r^^ 

*  lean  against  the  railings.  Then,  at  my  urgent  request,  he  was 
'  to  let  me  put  him  in  a  cab  and  send  him  home  ;  but  he  rallied 
'  a  little  after  that,  and,  on  our  meeting  Russell,  determined  to 
'  come  with  us.    We  three  went  down  by  steamboat  that  we 

*  might  see  the  great  ship,  and  then  got  an  open  fly  and  rode 

*  about  Blackheath  :  poor  Jerrold  mightily  enjoying  the  air,  and 

*  constantly  saying  that  it  set  him  up.  He  was  rather  quiet  at 
'  dinner — sat  next  Delane — but  was  very  humorous  and  good, 
'  and  in  spirits,  though  he  took  hardly  anything.  We  parted 
'  with  references  to  coming  down  here  '  (Gadshill)  *  and  I  never 

*  saw  him  again.  Next  morning  he  was  taken  very  ill  when  he 
'  tried  to  get  up.    On  the  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  was  very 

*  bad,  but  rallied  on  the  Friday,  and  was  quite  confident  of 

*  getting  well.    On  the  Sunday  he  was  very  ill  again,  and  on  the 

*  Monday  forenoon  died ;  "  at  peace  with  all  the  world  "  he  said, 

*  In  the  same  letter  was  an  illustra-  '  you  ever  hear  how  he  died  ?   He  lay  Ruling 

tion  of  the  ruling  passion  in  death,  '  very  still  in  bed  with  the  life  fading  Passion, 

which,  even  in  so  undignified  a  sub-  *  out  of  him — suddenly  sprung  out  of 

ject,   might   have   interested   Pope.  '  it,  threw  what  is  professionally  called 

*  You  remember  little  Wieland  who  *  a  flip-flap,  and  fell  dead   on  the 

*  did  grotesque  demons  so  well.    Did  '  floor.' 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  Viil. 


*  and  asking  to  be  remembered  to  friends.  He  had  become  in- 
'  distinct  and  insensible,  until  for  but  a  few  minutes  at  the  end. 

*  I  knew  nothing  about  it,  except  that  he  had  been  ill  and  was 

*  better,  until,  going  up  by  railway  yesterday  morning,  I  heard  a 
'  man  in  the  carriage,  unfolding  his  newspaper,  say  to  another 
'  "  Douglas  Jerrold  is  dead."  I  immediately  went  up  there,  and 
'  then  to  Whitefriars.  ...  I  propose  that  there  shall  be  a  night 
'  at  a  theatre  when  the  actors  (with  old  Cooke)  shall  play  the 

*  Rent  Day  and  BlacJz-eyd  Susan  ;  another  night  elsewhere,  with 

*  a  lecture  from  Thackeray ;  a  day  reading  by  me ;  a  night  read- 
'  ing  by  me ;  a  lecture  by  Russell ;  and  a  subscription  per- 

*  formance  of  the  Fivzen  Deepy  as  at  Tavistock  House.    I  don't 
mean  to  do  it  beggingly ;  but  merely  to  announce  the  whole 

'  series,  the  day  after  the  funeral,  "  In  memory  of  the  late  Mr. 
'  "  Douglas  Jerrold,"  or  some  such  phrase.  I  have  got  hold  of 
'  Arthur  Smith  as  the  best  man  of  business  I  know,  and  go  to 
work  with  him  to-morrow  morning — inquiries  being  made  in  the 
'  meantime  as  to  the  likeliest  places  to  be  had  for  these  various 

*  purposes.    My  confident  hope  is  that  we  shall  get  close  upon 

*  two  thousand  pounds/ 

The  friendly  enterprise  was  carried  to  the  close  with  a  vigour, 
promptitude,  and  success,  that  well  corresponded  with  this  opening. 
In  addition  to  the  performances  named,  there  were  others  in  the 
country  also  organized  by  Dickens,  in  which  he  took  active  per- 
sonal part ;  and  the  result  did  not  fall  short  of  his  expectations. 
The  sum  was  invested  ultimately  for  our  friend's  unmarried 
daughter,  who  now  receives,  under  direction  of  the  Court  of 
Chancery,  the  income  of  it  until  lately  paid  by  myself,  the  last 
surviving  trustee. 

So  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  summer,*  and  when  the  country 


*  One  of  its  incidents  made  such  an 
impression  on  him  that  it  will  be  worth 
while  to  preserve  his  description  of  it. 

*  I  have  been  (by  mere  accident)  see- 

*  ing  the  serpents  fed  to-day,  with  the 

*  live  birds,  rabbits,  and  guinea-pigs — 

*  a  sight  so  very  horrible  that  I  cannot 
'  get  rid  of  the  impression,  and  am,  at 

Uiis  present,  imagining  serpents  com- 


*  ing  up  the  legs  of  the  table,  with 
'  their  infernal  flat  heads,  and  their 

*  tongues  like  the  Devil's  tail  (evi- 

*  dently  taken  from  that  model,  in  the 

*  magic  lanterns  and  other  such  popu- 
'  lar  representations),  elongated  for 

*  dinner.    I  saw  one  small  serpent, 

*  whose  father  was  asleep,  go  up  to  a 
'  guinea-pig  (white  and  yellow,  and 


Little  Dorrity  and  a  Lazy  Tour. 


233 


performances  were  over  at  the  end  of  August  I  had  this  intimation,  ^^l^' 

*  I  have  arranged  with  Collins  that  he  and  I  w411  start  next  Monday  ^^57- 
'  on  a  ten  or  twelve  days'  expedition  to  out-of-the-way  places, 

'  to  do  (in  inns  and  coast-corners)  a  little  tour  in  search  of  an  Lazy  Tour 

projected. 

*  article  and  m  avoidance  of  railroads.    I  must  get  a  good  name 

*  for  it,  and  I  propose  it  in  five  articles,  one  for  the  beginning  of 

*  every  number  in  the  October  part.'    Next  day :  *  Our  decision 

*  is  for  a  foray  upon  the  fells  of  Cumberland  ;  I  having  discovered 

*  in  the  books  some  promising  moors  and  bleak  places  there- 

*  about.'  Into  the  lake-country  they  went  accordingly ;  and  The 
Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  contributed  to  Household 
WordSy  related  the  trip.  But  his  letters  had  descriptive  touches, 
and  some  whimsical  experiences,  not  in  the  published  account. 

Looking  over  the  Beauties  of  England  and  Wales  before  he  Scene 
left  London,  his  ambition  was  fired  by  mention  of  Carrick  Fell,  ' 
.'a  gloomy  old  mountain  1500  feet  high,' which  he  secretly  re- 
solved to  go  up.    *  We  came  straight  to  it  yesterday '  (9th  of 
September).     *  Nobody  goes   up.     Guides   have  forgotten  it. 

*  Master  of  a  little  inn,  excellent  north-countryman,  volunteered. 

'  Went  up,  in  a  tremendous  rain.    C.  D.  beat  Mr.  Porter  (name  Up  Carrick 

Fell 

*  of  landlord)  in  half  a  mile.  Mr.  P.  done  up  in  no  time.  Three 
'nevertheless  went  on.  Mr.  P.  again  leading;  C.  D.  and  C* 
(Mr.  Wilkie   Collins)  *  following.     Rain  terrific,  black  mists, 

'  with  a  gentle  eye — every  hair  upon  '  when  they  saw  the  guinea-pig  give  it 

*  him  erect  with  horror)  ;  corkscrew  *  up,  and  the  young  serpent  go  away 

*  himself  on  the  tip  of  his  tail  ;  open  *  looking  at  him  over  about  two  yards 
'  a  mouth  which  couldn't  have  swal-  *  and  a  quarter  of  shoulder,  struggled 

*  lowed  the  guinea-pig's  nose  ;  dilate  *  which  should  get  into  the  innermost 

*  a  throat  which  wouldn't  have  made  *  angle  and  be  seized  last.  Everyone 
'  him  a  stocking  ;  and  show  him  what  *  of  them  then  hid  his  eyes  in  another's 

*  his  father  meant  to  do  with  him  when  *  breast,  and  then  they  all  shook  to- 

*  he  came  out  of  that   ill-looking  *  gather  like  dry  leaves — as  I  daresay 

*  Hookah  into  which  he  had  resolved  *  tliey  may  be  doing  now,  for  old 

*  himself.  The  guinea-pig  backed  *  Hookah  was  as  dull  as  laudanum 
'  against  the  side  of  the  cage — said  "I  *.  .  .  .  Please  to  imagine  two  small 

*  "know  it,  I  know  it!" — and  his  *  serpents,  one  beginning  on  the  tail  of 

*  eye  glared  and  his  coat  turned  wiry,  *  a  white  mouse,  and  one  on  the  head, 

*  as  he  made  the  remark.    Five  small  *  and  each  pulling  his  own  way,  and 

*  sparrows  crouching  together  in  a  little  'the  mouse  very  much  alive  all  the 

*  trench  at  the  back  of  the  cage,  peeped  '  time,  with  the  middle  of  him  madly 

*  over  the  brim  of  it,  all  the  time  ;  and  *  writhing,* 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI II. 


Cumber-   *  daikness  of  night    Mr.  P.  agitated.    C.  D.  confident.    C.  (a 

LAND  :  .  1  U 

1857-     *  long  way  down  in  perspective)  submissive.    All  wet  through. 

*  No  poles.     Not  so  much  as  a  walking-stick  in  the  party. 

*  Reach  the  summit  at  about  one  in  the  day.    Dead  darkness  as 

*  of  night.  Mr.  P.  (excellent  fellow  to  the  last)  uneasy.  C.  D. 
'  produces  compass  from  pocket.     Mr.  P.  reassured.  Farm- 

*  house  where  dog-cart  was  left,  N.N.W.    Mr.  P.  complimentary. 

*  Descent  commenced.  C.  D.  with  compass  triumphant,  until 
*■  compass,  with  the  heat  and  wet  of  C.  D.'s  pocket,  breaks. 

*  Mr.  P.  (who  never  had  a  compass),  inconsolable,  confesses  he 

*  has  not  been  on  Carrick  Fell  for  twenty  years,  and  he  don't 

*  know  the  way  down.    Darker  and  darker.    Nobody  discernible, 

*  two  yards  off,  by  the  other  two.  Mr.  P.  makes  suggestions,  but 
Way  lost  '  no  way.  It  becomes  clear  to  C.  D.  and  to  C.  that  Mr.  P.  is 
down.        '  going  round  and  round  the  mountain,  and  never  coming  down. 

*  Mr.  P.  sits  on  angular  granite,  and  says  he  is  '*just  fairly  doon." 
'  C.  D.  revives  Mr.  P.  with  laughter,  the  only  restorative  in  the 

*  company.  Mr.  P.  again  complimentary.  Descent  tried  once 
'  more.  Mr.  P.  worse  and  worse.  Council  of  war.  Proposals 
'  from  C.  D.  to  go  "  slap  down."    Seconded  by  C.    Mr.  P. 

*  objects,  on  account  of  precipice  called  The  Black  Arches,  and 

*  terror  of  the  countryside.    More  wandering.    Mr.  P.  terror- 

*  stricken,  but  game.     Watercourse,  thundering  and  roaring, 

*  reached.    C.  D.  suggests  that  it  must  run  to  the  river,  and  had 

*  best  be  followed,  subject  to  all  gymnastic  hazards.    Mr.  P. 

*  opposes,  but  gives  in.  Watercourse  followed  accordingly.  Leaps, 
Accident     *  splashes,  and  tumbles,  for  two  hours.    C.  lost.    C.  D.  whoops. 

to  Wilkie 

CoUixis.      *  Cries  for  assistance  from  behind.     C.  D.  returns.     C.  with 

*  horribly  sprained  ankle,  lying  in  rivulet ! ' 

All  the  danger  was  over  when  Dickens  sent  his  description; 
but  great  had  been  the  trouble  in  binding  up  the  sufferer's  ankle 
and  getting  him  painfully  on,  shoving,  shouldering,  carrying  alter- 
nately, till  terra  firma  was  reached.    *  We  got  down  at  last  in  the 

*  wildest  place,  preposterously  out  of  the  course ;  and,  propping 

*  up  C.  against  stones,  sent  Mr.  P.  to  the  other  side  of  Cumber- 

*  land  for  dog-cart,  so  got  back  to  his  inn,  and  changed.  Shoe  or 
'  stockin^i  on  the  bad  foot,  out  ol  the  question.    Foot  bundled 


§  I.]         Little  Dorrit,  and  a  Lazy  Tour. 


235 


*  up  in  a  flannel  waistcoat.    C.  D.  carrying  C.  melo-dramatically  Cumber- 

.  land: 

*  (Wardour  to  the  life  !)  *  everywhere  ;  into  and  out  of  carriages ;  _  1857- 

*  up  and  down  stairs ;  to  bed ;  every  step.    And  so  to  Wigton, 

*  got  doctor,  and  here  we  are  !  !    A  pretty  business,  we  flatter 

*  ourselves ! ' 

Wigton,  Dickens  described  as  a  place  of  little  houses  all  in  At  Wigton. 
half-mourning,  yellow  stone  or  white  stone  and  black,  with  the 
wonderful  peculiarity  that  though  it  had  no  population,  no  busi- 
ness, and  no  streets  to  speak  of,  it  had  five  linendrapers  within 
range  of  their  single  window,  one  linendraper  next  door,  and 
five  more  linendrapers  round  the  corner.  '  I  ordered  a  night  light 

*  in  my  bed-room.    A  queer  little  old  woman  brought  me  one  of 

*  the  common  Child's  night  lights,  and,  seeming  to  think  that  I 

*  looked  at  it  with  interest,  said,  "It's  joost  a  vara  keeyourious 

*  "  thing,  sir,  and  joost  new  coom  oop.  It'll  bum  awt  hoors  a' 
'  "  end,  and  no  gootther,  nor  no  waste,  nor  ony  sike  a  thing,  if 

*  "  you  can  creedit  what  I  say,  seein'  the  airticle." '  In  these 
primitive  quarters  there  befell  a  difficulty  about  letters,  which 
Dickens  solved  in  a  fashion  especially  his  own.    *  The  day  after 

*  Carrick  there  was  a  mess  about  our  letters,  through  our  not  Solving  a 

*  going  to  a  place  called  Mayport.    So,  while  the  landlord  was  ' 

*  planning  how  to  get  them  (they  were  only  twelve  miles  off),  I 

*  walked  off,  to  his  great  astonishment,  and  brought  them  over.' 
The  night  after  leaving  Wigton  they  were  at  the  Ship-hotel  in 
Allonby. 

Allonby  his  letters  presented  as  a  small  untidy  outlandish  place  :  At  Aiionby. 
rough  stone  houses  in  half  mourning,  a  few  coarse  yellow-stone 
lodging  houses  with  black  roofs  (bills  in  all  the  windows),  five 
bathing-machines,  five  girls  in  straw  hats,  five  men  in  straw  hats 
(wishing  they  had  not  come)  ;  very  much  what  Broadstairs  would 
have  been  if  it  had  been  born  Irish,  and  had  not  inherited  a  cliff. 

*  But  this  is  a  capital  little  homely  inn,  looking  out  upon  the  sea ; 

*  with  the  coast  of  Scotland,  mountainous  and  romantic,  over 

*  against  the  windows ;  and  though  I  can  just  stand  upright  in  my 

•  There  was   a  situation   in  the     Frank  Aldersley  in  the  person  of  Wilkie 
Frozen  Deep  where  Richard  Wardour,  ColUns. 
played  by  Dickens,  had  to  carry  about 


236 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI i I. 


CuM^BER-   '  bedroom,  we  are  really  well  lodged.    It  is  a  clean  nice  place  in 
^857-     *  a  rough  wild  country,  and  we  have  a  very  obliging  and  comfort- 
An  old  ac-    '  able  landlady.'   He  had  found  indeed,  in  the  latter,  an  acquaint- 

quaintance. 

ance  of  old  date.    *  The  landlady  at  the  little  inn  at  Allonby, 

*  lived  at  Greta-Bridge  in  Yorkshire  when  I  went  down  there 

*  before  Nicklehy ;  and  was  smuggled  into  the  room  to  see  me, 
'  after  I  was  secretly  found  out.    She  is  an  immensely  fat  woman 

*  now.     "  But  I  could  tuck  my  arm  round  her  waist  then, 

*  "  Mr.  Dickens,"  the  landlord  said  when  she  told  me  the  story  as 

*  I  was  going  to  bed  the  night  before  last.    "  And  can't  you  do  it 

*  "  now  ?  "  I  said.  "  You  insensible  dog  !  Look  at  me  !  Here's 
'  "  a  picture  ! "    Accordingly  I  got  round  as  much  of  her  as  I 

*  could  ;  and  this  gallant  action  was  the  most  successful  I  have 

*  ever  performed,  on  the  whole.' 

At  Doncas-  On  their  way  home  the  friends  were  at  Doncaster,  and  this  was 
Dickens's  first  experience  of  the  St.  Leger  and  its  saturnalia. 
His  companion  had  by  this  time  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able, 
doubled-up,  to  walk  with  a  thick  stick  ;  in  which  condition,  *  being 

*  exactly  like  the  gouty  admiral  in  a  comedy  I  have  given  him 
'  that  name.'    The  impressions  received  from  the  race-week  were 

Theraco-  not  favourable.  It  was  noise  and  turmoil  all  day  long,  and  a 
gathering  of  vagabonds  from  all  parts  of  the  racing  earth.  Every 
bad  face  that  had  ever  caught  wickedness  from  an  innocent  horse 
had  its  representative  in  the  streets  ;  and  as  Dickens,  like  Gulliver 
looking  down  upon  his  fellow-men  after  coming  from  the  horse- 
country,  looked  down  into  Doncaster  High-street  from  his  inn- 
window,  he  seemed  to  see  everywhere  a  then  notorious  personage 
who  had  just  poisoned  his  betting-companion.    'Everywhere  I 

*  see  the  late  Mr.  Palmer  with  his  betting-book  in  his  hand. 

*  Mr.  Palmer  sits  next  me  at  the  theatre  \  Mr.  Palmer  goes  before 
'  me  down  the  street ;  Mr.  Palmer  follows  me  into  the  chemist's 

*  shop  where  I  go  to  buy  rose  water  after  breakfast,  and  says  to 
'  the  chemist  "  Give  us  soom  sal  volatile  or  soom  damned  thing 

*  "  o'  that  soort,  in  wather — ray  head's  bad  ! "  And  I  look  at  the 
'  back  of  his  bad  head  repeated  in  long,  long  lines  on  the  race 

*  course,  and  in  the  betting  stand  and  outside  the  betting  rooms 

*  in  the  town,  and  I  vow  to  God  that  I  can  see  nothing  in  it 


§  i.j         Little  Dorrit,  and  a  Lazy  Tour.  237 


*  but  cnieltv,  covetousness,  calculation,  insensibility,  and  low  Doncas- 

TER  : 

*  wickedness.'  ^^^7. 

Even  a  half-appalling  kind  of  luck  was  not  absent  from  my  Racing 

^  prophecy ! 

friend's  experiences  at  the  race  course,  when,  what  he  called 
a  *  wonderful,  paralysing,  coincidence  '  befell  him.  He  bought 
the  card ;  facetiously  wrote  down  three  names  for  the  winners  of 
the  three  chief  races  (never  in  his  life  having  heard  or  thought  of 
any  of  the  horses,  except  that  the  winner  of  the  Derby,  who 
proved  to  be  nowhere,  had  been  mentioned  to  him) ;  '  and,  if  you 

*  can  believe  it  without  your  hair  standing  on  end,  those  three 

*  races  were  won,  one  after  another,  by  those  three  horses  !  !  ! ' 
That  was  the  St.  Leger-day,  of  which  he  also  thought  it  notice- 
able, that,  though  the  losses  were  enormous,  nobody  had  won,  for 
there  was  nothing  but  grinding  of  teeth  and  blaspheming  of  ill- 
luck.  Nor  had  matters  mended  on  the  Cup-day,  after  which 
celebration  *  a  groaning  phantom '  lay  in  the  doorway  of  his  bed-  The 

•  horrors.  * 

room  and  howled  all  night.  The  landlord  came  up  in  the 
morning  to  apologise,  *  and  said  it  was  a  gentleman  who  had  lost 

*  ;£"i5oo  or  ;^2ooo;  and  he  had  drunk  a  deal  afterwards  ;  and 

*  then  they  put  him  to  bed,  and  then  he — took  the  'orrors,  and 

*  got  up,  and  yelled  till  morning.'  *  Dickens  might  well  believe, 
as  he  declared  at  the  end  of  his  letter,  that  if  a  boy  with  any 
good  in  him,  but  with  a  dawning  propensity  to  sporting  and 
betting,  were  but  brought  to  the  Doncaster  races  soon  enough,  it 
would  cure  him. 

*  A  performance  of  Lord  Lytton's     *  began  thus  :  "I  so-and-so,  being  of  Perform- 
Money  at  the  theatre,  as  described  by     *  '*  unsound  mind  but  firm  in  body.  ."  ^^^^^y 
Dickens,  will  supply  the  farce  to  this     '  In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  real 
tragedy.  *  I  have  rarely  seen  anything    *  character,  humour,  wit,  and  good 

*  finer  than  Lord  Glossmore,  a  chorus-     *  writing  of  the  comedy,  made  them- 

*  singer  in  bluchers,  drab  trowsers,     *  selves  apparent ;  and  the  applause 

*  and  a  brown  sack  ;    and   Dudley     '  was  loud  and  repeated,  and  really 

*  Smooth,  in  somebody   else's  wig,     *  seemed  genuine.    Its  capital  things 

*  hindside  before.  Stout  also,  in  any-  '  were  not  lost  altogether.  It  was 
'  thing  he  could  lay  hold  of.    The     '  succeeded  by  a  Jockey  Dance  by 

*  waiter  at  the  club  had  an  immense    *  five  ladies,  who  put  their  whips  in 

*  moustache,  white  trowsers,   and  a     *  their  mouths  and  worked  imaginary 

*  striped    jacket ;    and  he  brought     '  winners  up  t.>  the  float — an  immense 

*  everybody  who  came  in  a  vinegar-    *  success. ' 

*  cruet.    The  man  who  read  the  will 


238 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Rook  VI II. 


London: 
^857. 

II. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME. 
1857— 1858. 

An  unsettled  feeling  greatly  in  excess  of  what  was  usual  with 
Dickens,  more  or  less  observable  since  his  first  residence  at 
Boulogne,  became  at  this  time  almost  habitual,  and  the  satis- 
factions which  home  should  have  supplied,  and  which  indeed 
were  essential  requirements  of  his  nature,  he  had  failed  to  find 
in  his  home.  He  had  not  the  alternative  that  under  this  disap- 
pointment some  can  discover  in  what  is  called  society.  It  did  not 
Disappoint-  suit  him,  and  he  set  no  store  by  it.    No  man  was  better  fitted  to 

ments  and 

distastes.  adorn  any  circle  he  entered,  but  beyond  that  of  friends  and  equals 
he  rarely  passed.  He  would  take  as  much  pains  to  keep  out  of 
the  houses  of  the  great  as  others  take  to  get  into  them.  Not 
always  wisely,  it  may  be  admitted.  Mere  contempt  for  toadyism 
and  flunkeyism  was  not  at  all  times  the  prevailing  motive  with 
him  which  he  supposed  it  to  be.  Beneath  his  horror  of  those 
vices  of  Englishmen  in  his  own  rank  of  life,  there  was  a  still 
stronger  resentment  at  the  social  inequalities  that  engender  them, 
of  which  he  was  not  so  conscious  and  to  which  he  owned  less 
freely.  Not  the  less  it  served  secretly  to  justify  what  he  might 
otherwise  have  had  no  mind  to.  To  say  he  was  not  a  gentleman 
would  be  as  true  as  to  say  he  was  not  a  writer ;  but  if  any  one 
should  assert  his  occasional  preference  for  what  was  even  beneath 
his  level  over  that  which  was  above  it,  this  would  be  difficult  of 
disproof.  It  was  among  those  defects  of  temperament  for  which 
his  early  trials  and  his  early  successes  were  accountable  in  perhaps 
What  we  equal  measure.  He  was  sensitive  in  a  passionate  degree  to  praise 
are!"^"  and  blame,  which  yet  he  made  it  for  the  most  part  a  point  of 
pride  to  assume  indifference  to ;  the  inequalities  of  rank  which 
he  secretly  resented  took  more  galling  as  well  as  glaring  pro- 
minence from  the  contrast  of  the  necessities  he  had  gone  through 
with  the  fame  that  had  come  to  him ;  and  when  the  forces  he 


§  tl.]  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


239 


most  affected  to  despise  assumed  the  form  of  barriers  he  could  London  : 

1857. 

not  easily  overleap,  he  was  led  to  appear  frequently  intolerant  

(for  he  very  seldom  was  really  so)  in  opinions  and  language.  His 
early  sufferings  brought  with  them  the  healing  powers  of  energy, 
will,  and  persistence,  and  taught  him  the  inexpressible  value  of 
a  determined  resolve  to  live  down  difficulties ;  but  the  habit,  in  Contrasted 

.  1  •  /.  •     •  1  •  influences. 

small  as  m  great  thmgs,  of  renunciation  and  self-sacrifice,  they 
did  not  teach ;  and,  by  his  sudden  leap  into  a  world-wide  popu- 
larity and  influence,  he  became  master  of  everything  that  might 
seem  to  be  attainable  in  life,  before  he  had  mastered  what  a  man 
must  undergo  to  be  equal  to  its  hardest  trials. 

Nothing  of  all  this  has  yet  presented  itself  to  notice,  except  in 
occasional  forms  of  restlessness  and  desire  of  change  of  place, 
which  were  themselves,  when  his  books  were  in  progress,  so 
incident  as  well  to  the  active  requirements  of  his  fancy  as  to  call, 
thus  far,  for  no  other  explanation.  Up  to  the  date  of  the  com- 
pletion of  Copperfield  he  had  felt  himself  to  be  in  possession  of  an  Compensa- 
all-sufficient  resource.  Against  whatever  might  befall  he  had  a 
set-off  in  his  imaginative  creations,  a  compensation  derived  from 
his  art  that  never  failed  him,  because  there  he  was  supreme.  It 
was  the  world  he  could  bend  to  his  will,  and  make  subserve  to  all 
his  desires.  He  had  otherwise,  underneath  his  exterior  of  a 
singular  precision,  method,  and  strictly  orderly  arrangement  in 
all  things,  and  notwithstanding  a  temperament  to  which  home 
and  home  interests  were  really  a  necessity,  something  in  common 
with  those  eager,  impetuous,  somewhat  overbearing  natures,  that  Hidden 
rush  at  existence  without  heeding  the  cost  of  it,  and  are  not  more  ^^"'^ 
ready  to  accept  and  make  the  most  of  its  enjoyments  than  to  be 
easily  and  quickly  overthrown  by  its  burdens.*    But  the  world  he 


*  Anything  more  completely  op- 
posed to  the  Micawber  type  could 
hardly  be  conceived,  and  yet  there 
were  moments  (really  and  truly  only 
moments)  when  the  fancy  would  arise 
that  if  the  conditions  of  his  life  had 
been  reversed,  something  of  a  vaga- 
bond existence  (using  the  word  in 
Goldsmith's  meaning)   might  have 


supervened.  It  would  have  been  an 
unspeakable  misery  to  him,  but  it 
might  have  come  nevertheless.  The 
question  of  hereditary  transmission 
had  a  curious  attraction  for  him,  and 
considerations  connected  with  it  were 
frequently  present  to  his  mind.  Of  a 
youth  who  had  fallen  into  a  father's 
weaknesses  without  the  possibility  of 


240 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London  :  had  Called  into  being  had  thus  far  borne  him  safely  through  these 
perils.  He  had  his  own  creations  always  by  his  side.  They  were 
living,  speaking  companions.  With  them  only  he  was  everywhere 
thoroughly  identified.  He  laughed  and  wept  with  them  ;  was  as 
much  elated  by  their  fun  as  cast  down  by  their  grief ;  and  brought 
to  the  consideration  of  them  a  belief  in  their  reality  as  well  as 
in  the  influences  they  were  meant  to  exercise,  which  in  every 
circumstance  sustained  him. 
Misgivings.  It  was  during  the  composition  of  Little  Dorrit  that  I  think  he 
first  felt  a  certain  strain  upon  his  invention  which  brought  with 
it  other  misgivings.  In  a  modified  form  this  was  present  during 
the  later  portions  of  Bleak  House,  of  which  not  a  few  of  the 
defects  might  be  traced  to  the  acting  excitements  amid  which  it 
was  written ;  but  the  succeeding  book  made  it  plainer  to  him ; 
and  it  is  remarkable  that  in  the  interval  between  them  he  resorted 
for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his  life  to  a  practice,  which  he 
abandoned  at  the  close  of  his  next  and  last  story  published  in  the 
twenty-number  form,  of  putting  down  written  *  Memoranda '  of 
Written  suggestions  for  characters  or  incidents  by  way  of  resource  to  him 
fofSeT  in  his  writing.  Never  before  had  his  teeming  fancy  seemed  to 
want  such  help ;  the  need  being  less  to  contribute  to  its  fulness 
than  to  check  its  overflowing  ;  but  it  is  another  proof  that  he  had 
been  secretly  bringing  before  himself,  at  least,  the  possibility  that 
what  had  ever  been  his  great  support  might  some  day  desert  him. 
It  was  strange  that  he  should  have  had  such  doubt,  and  he  would 
hardly  have  confessed  it  openly ;  but  apart  from  that  wonderful 
world  of  his  books,  the  range  of  his  thoughts  was  not  always  pro- 
portioned to  the  width  and  largeness  of  his  nature.  His  ordinary 
circle  of  activity,  whether  in  likings  or  thinkings,  was  full  of  such 
surprising  animation,  that  one  was  apt  to  believe  it  more  com- 
prehensive than  it  really  was  ;  and  again  and  again,  when  a  wide 

having  himself  observed  them  for  imi-  *  What  A.  evidently  derives  from  his 

tation,  he  thus  w^rote  on  one  occasion  :  *  father  cannot  in  his  case  be  derived 

*  It  suggests  the  strangest  considera-  *  from  association  and  observation, 
'  tion  as  to  which  of  our  own  failings  *  but  must  be  in  the  very  principles 

*  we  are  really  responsible,  and  as  to  *  of   his   individuality  as  a  living 

*  which   of  them   we   cannot  quite  *  creature.' 

*  reasonably  hold  ourselves  to  be  so. 


What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


241 


horizon  might  seem  to  be  ahead  of  him,  he  would  pull  up  suddenly  • 
and  stop  short,  as  though  nothing  lay  beyond.  For  the  time,  ^  ^^^^^^ — 
though  each  had  its  term  and  change,  he  was  very  much  a  man  without 
of  one  idea,  each  having  its  turn  of  absolute  predominance ;  and 
this  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  thoroughness  with  which  every- 
thing he  took  in  hand  was  done.  As  to  the  matter  of  his  writings, 
the  actual  truth  was  that  his  creative  genius  never  really  failed 
hinL  Not  a  few  of  his  inventions  of  character  and  humour,  up 
to  the  very  close  of  his  life,  his  Marigolds,  Lirripers,  Gargerys, 
Pips,  Sapseas  and  many  others,  were  as  fresh  and  fine  as  in  his 
greatest  day.  He  had  however  lost  the  free  and  fertile  method 
of  the  earlier  time.  He  could  no  longer  fill  a  wide-spread  canvas  impatience 
with  the  same  facility  and  certainty  as  of  old ;  and  he  had  fre-  founded 
quently  a  quite  unfounded  apprehension  of  some  possible  break- 
down, of  which  the  end  might  be  at  any  moment  beginning. 
There  came  accordingly,  from  time  to  time,  intervals  of  unusual 
impatience  and  restlessness,  strange  to  me  in  connection  with  his 
home ;  his  old  pursuits  were  too  often  laid  aside  for  other  excite- 
ments and  occupations;  he  joined  a  public  political  agitation, 
set  on  foot  by  administrative  reformers ;  he  got  up  various  quasi- 
public  private  theatricals,  in  which  he  took  the  leading  place ; 
and  though  it  was  but  part  of  his  always  generous  devotion  in  any 
friendly  duty  to  organize  the  series  of  performances  on  his  friend 
Jerrold's  death,  yet  the  eagerness  with  which  he  flung  himself 
into  them,  so  arranging  them  as  to  assume  an  amount  of  labour 
in  acting  and  travelling  that  might  have  appalled  an  experienced 
comedian,  and  carrying  them  on  week  after  week  unceasingly  in 
London  and  the  provinces,  expressed  but  the  craving  which  still 
had  possession  of  him  to  get  by  some  means  at  some  change  that 
should  make  existence  easier.  What  was  highest  in  his  nature 
had  ceased  for  the  time  to  be  highest  in  his  life,  and  he  had  put 
himself  at  the  mercy  of  lower  accidents  and  conditions.  The 
mere  effect  of  the  strolling  wandering  ways  into  which  this  acting 
led  him  could  not  be  other  than  unfavourable.  But  remonstrance 
as  yet  was  unavailing. 

To  one  very  earnestly  made  in  the  early  autumn  of  1857,  in 
which  opportunity  was  taken  to  compare  his  recent  rush  up 

VOL.  II.  K 


242 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [book  vill. 


London  :  Camck  Fell  to  his  rush  into  other  difficulties,  here  was  the  reply. 

1857.  '  . 
 *  Too  late  to  say,  put  the  curb  on,  and  don't  rush  at  hills — the 

*  wrong  man  to  say  it  to.    I  have  now  no  relief  but  in  action. 

*  I  am  become  incapable  of  rest.  I  am  quite  confident  I  should 
'  rust,  break,  and  die,  if  I  spared  myself.  Much  better  to  die, 
^  doing.    What  I  am  in  that  way,  nature  made  me  first,  and  my 

Reply  to     <  way  of  Hfc  has  of  late,  alas  !  confirmed.    I  must  accept  the 

a  remon- 
strance.      <■  drawback — since  it  is  one — with  the  powers  I  have ;  and  I  must 

'  hold  upon  the  tenure  prescribed  to  me.'  Something  of  the  same 
sad  feeling,  it  is  right  to  say,  had  been  expressed  from  time  to 
time,  in  connection  also  with  home  dissatisfactions  and  mis- 
givings, through  the  three  years  preceding;  but  I  attributed  it 
to  other  causes,  and  gave  little  attention  to  it.  During  his 
absences  abroad  for  the  greater  part  of  1854,  '55,  and  '56,  while 
the  elder  of  his  children  were  growing  out  of  childhood,  and  his 
books  were  less  easy  to  him  than  in  his  earlier  manhood,  evidences 
presented  themselves  in  his  letters  of  the  old  *  unhappy  loss  or 
'  want  of  something '  to  which  he  had  given  a  pervading  pro- 
minence in  Copperfield.  In  the  first  of  those  years  he  made 
express  allusion  to  the  kind  of  experience  which  had  been  one 
of  his  descriptions  in  that  favourite  book,  and,  mentioning  the 
Dangerous   drawbacks  of  his  present  life,  had  first  identified  it  with  his  own  : 

comfort. 

*  the  so  happy  and  yet  so  unhappy  existence  which  seeks  its 
'  realities  in  unrealities,  and  finds  its  dangerous  comfort  in  a  per- 
'  petual  escape  firom  the  disappointment  of  heart  around  it.' 

Later  in  the  same  year  he  thus  wrote  from  Boulogne  :  *  I  have 
'  had  dreadful  thoughts  of  getting  away  somewhere  altogether  by 
'  myself.  If  I  could  have  managed  it,  I  think  possibly  I  might 
'  have  gone  to  the  Pyreennees  (you  know  what  I  mean  that  word 
'  for,  so  I  won't  re-write  it)  for  six  months  !    I  have  put  the  idea 

*  into  the  perspective  of  six  months,  but  have  not  abandoned  it. 

*  I  have  visions  of  living  for  half  a  year  or  so,  in  all  sorts  of 

*  inaccessible  places,  and  opening  a  new  book  therein.  A  floating 
j^'ace»to  <  idea  of  going  up  above  the  snow-line  in  Switzerland,  and  living 
Dooks  in.     <■  in  some  astonishing  convent,  hovers  about  me.    If  Household 

*  Words  could  be  got  into  a  good  train,  in  short,  I  don't  know 
'  iii  what  strange  place,  or  at  what  remote  elevation  above  the 


§  II.]  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


243 


*  level  of  the  sea,  I  might  fall  to  work  next.   Restlessness^  you  will  Londom: 

*  say.    Whatever  it  is,  it  is  always  driving  me,  and  I  cannot  help  

*  it.    I  have  rested  nine  or  ten  weeks,  and  sometimes  feel  as  if 

*  it  had  been  a  year — though  I  had  the  strangest  nervous  miseries 

*  before  I  stopped.    If  I  couldn't  walk  fast  and  far,  I  should  just 

*  explode  and  perish.'    Again,  four  months  later  he  wrote  :  '  You 

*  will  hear  of  me  in  Paris,  probably  next  Sunday,  and  I  may  go 

*  on  to  Bordeaux.  Have  general  ideas  of  emigrating  in  the 
'  summer  to  the  mountain-ground  between  France  and  Spain. 

*  Am  altogether  in  a  dishevelled  state  of  mind — motes  of  new 

*  books  in  the  dirty  air,  miseries  of  older  growth  threatening  to 
close  upon  me.    Why  is  it,  that  as  with  poor  David,  a  sense  One 

happitiess 

'  comes  always  crushing  on  me  now,  when  I  fall  into  low  spirits,  missed. 

*  as  of  one  happiness  I  have  missed  in  life,  and  one  friend  and 

*  companion  I  have  never  made  ? ' 

Early  in  1856  (20th  of  January)  the  notion  revisited  him  of 
writing  a  book  in  solitude.    *  Again  I  am  beset  by  my  former 

*  notions  of  a  book  whereof  the  whole  story  shall  be  on  the  top 

*  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard.  As  I  accept  and  reject  ideas  for 
'  Little  Dorritj  it  perpetually  comes  back  to  me.    Two  or  three 

'  years  hence,  perhaps  you'll  find  me  living  with  the  Monks  and  More  book 

projects. 

'  the  Dogs  a  whole  winter — among  the  blinding  snows  that  fall 

*  about  that  monastery.    I  have  a "  serious  idea  that  I  shall  do  it, 

*  if  I  live.'  He  was  at  this  date  in  Paris ;  and  during  the  visit 
to  him  of  Macready  in  the  following  April,  the  self-revelations 
were  resumed.  The  great  actor  was  then  living  in  retirement  at 
Sherborne,  to  which  he  had  gone  on  quitting  the  stage ;  and 
Dickens  gave  favourable  report  of  his  enjoyment  of  the  change 
to  his  little  holiday  at  Paris.  Then,  after  recurring  to  his  own 
old  notion  of  having  some  slight  idea  of  going  to  settle  in 
Austraha,  only  he  could  not  do  it  until  he  should  have  finished 
Little  Dorrity  he  went  on  to  say  that  perhaps  Macready,  if  he 
could  get  into  harness  again,  would  not  be  the  worse  for  some 
such  troubles  as  were  worrying  himself.    *  It  fills  me  with  pity 

*  to  think  of  him  away  in  that  lonely  Sherborne  place.    I  have 

*  always  felt  of  myself  that  I  must,  please  God,  die  in  harness, 

*  but  I  have  never  felt  it  more  strongly  than  in  looking  at,  and 


244 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  viii. 


London:  <  thinking  of,  him.    However  strange  it  is  to  be  never  at  rest,  and 
'  never  satisfied,  and  ever  trying  after  something  that  is  never 
Homily  on    <  reached,  and  to  be  always  laden  with  plot  and  plan  and  care 

*  and  worry,  how  clear  it  is  that  it  must  be,  and  that  one  is  driven 
'  by  an  irresistible  might  until  the  journey  is  worked  out !    It  is 

*  much  better  to  go  on  and  fret,  than  to  stop  and  fret.    As  to 

*  repose— for  some  men  there's  no  such  thing  in  this  life.  The 

*  foregoing  has  the  appearance  of  a  small  sermon  j  but  it  is  so 

*  often  in  my  head  in  these  days  that  it  cannot  help  coming  out. 

*  The  old  days — the  old  days  !    Shall  I  ever,  I  wonder,  get  the 

*  frame  of  mind  back  as  it  used  to  be  then  ?    Something  of  it 

*  perhaps — but  never  quite  as  it  used  to  be.  I  find  that  the 
'  skeleton  in  my  domestic  closet  is  becoming  a  pretty  big  one.' 

It  would  be  unjust  and  uncandid  not  to  admit  that  these  and 
other  similar  passages  in  the  letters  that  extended  over  the  years 
while  he  lived  abroad,  had  served  in  some  degree  as  a  preparation 
for  what  came  after  his  return  to  England  in  the  following  year. 
blhinV*^  It  came  with  a  great  shock  nevertheless ;  because  it  told  plainly 
what  before  had  never  been  avowed,  but  only  hinted  at  more  or 
less  obscurely.  The  opening  reference  is  to  the  reply  which  had 
been  made  to  a  previous  expression  of  his  wish  for  some  con- 
fidences as  in  the  old  time.  I  give  only  what  is  strictly  necessary 
to  account  for  what  followed,  and  even  this  with  deep  reluctance. 

*  Your  letter  of  yesterday  was  so  kind  and  hearty,  and  sounded  so 

*  gently  the  many  chords  we  have  touched  together,  that  I  cannot 

*  leave  it  unanswered,  though  I  have  not  much  (to  any  purpose) 
dences       *  reference  to  "  confidences  "  was  merely  to  the 

'  relief  of  saying  a  word  of  what  has  long  been  pent  up  in  my 

*  mind.  Poor  Catherine  and  I  are  not  made  for  each  other,  and 
*■  there  is  no  help  for  it.    It  is  not  only  that  she  makes  me  uneasy 

*  and  unhappy,  but  that  I  make  her  so  too — and  much  more  so. 

*  She  is  exactly  what  you  know,  in  the  way  of  being  amiable  and 

*  complying ;  but  we  are  strangely  ill-assorted  for  the  bond  there 

*  is  between  us.    God  knows  she  would  have  been  a  thousand 

*  times  happier  if  she  had  married  another  kind  of  man,  and  that 

*  her  avoidance  of  this  destiny  would  have  been  at  least  equally 
'  good  for  us  both.    I  am  often  cut  to  the  heart  by  thinking  what 


§11.] 


What  Happened  at  this  Time, 


245 


*  a  pity  it  is,  for  her  own  sake,  that  I  ever  fell  in  her  way ;  and  if  London  : 

*  I  were  sick  or  disabled  to-morrow,  I  know  how  sorry  she  would  

*  be,  and  how  deeply  grieved  myself,  to  think  how  we  had  lost  ^^^^^J")^ 

*  each  other.    But  exactly  the  same  incompatibility  would  arise, 

*  the  moment  I  was  well  again  ;  and  nothing  on  earth  could  make 

*  her  understand  me,  or  suit  us  to  each  other.    Her  temperament 

*  will  not  go  with  mine.  It  mattered  not  so  much  when  we  had 
'  only  ourselves  to  consider,  but  reasons  have  been  growing  since 

*  which  make  it  all  but  hopeless  that  we  should  even  try  to 

*  struggle  on.  What  is  now  befalling  me  I  have  seen  steadily 
'  coming,  ever  since  the  days  you  remember  when  Mary  was 

*  bom ;  and  I  know  too  well  that  you  cannot,  and  no  one  can, 
'  help  me.    Why  I  have  even  written  I  hardly  know ;  but  it  is  a 

*  miserable  sort  of  comfort  that  you  should  be  clearly  aware  how 

*  matters  stand.    The  mere  mention  of  the  fact,  without  any 

*  complaint  or  blame  of  any  sort,  is  a  relief  to  my  present  state  of 

*  spirits — and  I  can  get  this  only  from  you,  because  I  can  speak 

*  of  it  to  no  one  else.'  In  the  same  tone  was  his  rejoinder  to  my 
reply.    *  To  the  most  part  of  what  you  say — Amen  !    You  are 

*  not  so  tolerant  as  perhaps  you  might  be  of  the  wayward  and  un- 
'  settled  feeling  which  is  part  (I  suppose)  of  the  tenure  on  which 

*  one  holds  an  imaginative  life,  and  which  I  have,  as  you  ought  to  'Tenure  of 

*  know  well,  often  only  kept  down  by  riding  over  it  like  a  dragoon  •  tSv^iife.' 

*  — but  let  that  go  by.    I  make  no  maudlin  complaint    I  agree 

*  with  you  as  to  the  very  possible  incidents,  even  not  less  bearable 

*  than  mine,  that  might  and  must  often  occur  to  the  married  con- 

*  dition  when  it  is  entered  into  very  young.    I  am  always  deeply 

*  sensible  of  the  wonderful  exercise  I  have  of  life  and  its  highest 

*  sensations,  and  have  said  to  myself  for  years,  and  have  honestly 

*  and  truly  felt.  This  is  the  drawback  to  such  a  career,  and  is  not 

*  to  be  complained  of.    I  say  it  and  feel  it  now  as  strongly  as 

*  ever  I  did ;  and,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last,  I  do  not  with  that 

*  view  put  all  this  forward.    But  the  years  have  not  made  it  easier 

*  to  bear  for  either  of  us  :  and,  for  her  sake  as  well  as  mine,  the  sharing 

blame. 

*  wish  will  force  itself  upon  me  that  something  might  be  done.  I 

*  know  too  well  it  is  impossible.    There  is  the  fact,  and  that  is 

*  all  one  can  say.    Nor  are  you  to  suppose  that  I  disguise  from 


246 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 11 


London : 
1857- 


Opportunity 
missed 
and  better 
influences 
weakened. 


What  the 
world  can- 
not give. 


Old  project 
revived. 


*  myself  what  might  be  urged  on  the  other  side.    I  claim  no 

*  immunity  from  blame.    There  is  plenty  of  fault  on  my  side,  I 

*  dare  say,  in  the  way  of  a  thousand  uncertainties,  caprices,  and 

*  difficulties  of  disposition  ;  but  only  one  thing  will  alter  all  that, 

*  and  that  is,  the  end  which  alters  everything.' 

It  will  not  seem  to  most  people  that  there  was  anything  here 
which  in  happier  circumstances  might  not  have  been  susceptible 
of  considerate  adjustment;  but  all  the  circumstances  were  un- 
favourable, and  the  moderate  middle  course  which  the  admissions 
In  that  letter  might  wisely  have  prompted  and  wholly  justified, 
was  unfortunately  not  taken.  Compare  what  before  was  said  of 
his  temperament,  with  what  is  there  said  by  himself  of  its  defects, 
and  the  explanation  will  not  be  difficult.  Every  counteracting 
influence  against  the  one  idea  which  now  predominated  over  him 
had  been  so  weakened  as  to  be  almost  powerless.  His  elder 
children  were  no  longer  children ;  his  books  had  lost  for  the  time 
the  importance  they  formerly  had  over  every  other  consideration 
in  his  life ;  and  he  had  not  in  himself  the  resource  that  such  a 
man,  judging  him  from  the  surface,  might  be  expected  to  have 
had.  Not  his  genius  only,  but  his  whole  nature,  was  too  ex- 
clusively made  up  of  sympathy  for,  and  with,  the  real  in  its  most 
intense  form,  to  be  sufficiently  provided  against  failure  in  the 
realities  around  him.  There  was  for  him  no  *  city  of  the  mind ' 
against  outward  ills,  for  inner  consolation  and  shelter.  It  was  in 
and  from  the  actual  he  still  stretched  forward  to  find  the  freedom 
and  satisfactions  of  an  ideal,  and  by  his  very  attempts  to  escape 
the  world  he  was  driven  back  into  the  thick  of  it.  But  what  he 
would  have  sought  there,  it  supplies  to  none;  and  to  get  the 
infinite  out  of  anything  so  finite,  has  broken  many  a  stout  heart. 

At  the  close  of  that  last  letter  from  Gadshill  (5th  of  September) 
was  this  question — *  What  do  you  think  of  my  paying  for  this 
'  place,  by  reviving  that  old  idea  of  some  Readings  from  my 

*  books.  I  am  very  strongly  tempted.  Think  of  it'  The 
reasons  against  it  had  great  force,  and  took,  in  my  judgment, 
greater  from  the  time  at  which  it  was  again  proposed.  The  old 
ground  of  opposition  remained.  It  was  a  substitution  of  lower 
for  higher  aims ;  a  change  to  commonplace  from  more  elevated 


§  II.]  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


247 


pursuits  ;  and  it  had  so  much  of  the  character  of  a  public  exhibi-  London : 
tion  for  money  as  to  raise,  in  the  question  of  respect  for  his 


tions 

to  iu 


calling  as  a  writer,  a  question  also  of  respect  for  himself  as  a  objecd 
gentleman.  This  opinion,  now  strongly  reiterated,  was  referred 
ultimately  to  two  distinguished  ladies  of  his  acquaintance,  who 
decided  against  it*  Yet  not  without  such  momentary  misgiving 
in  the  direction  of  *  the  stage,'  as  pointed  strongly  to  the  danger, 
which,  by  those  who  took  the  opposite  view,  was  most  of  all 
thought  incident  to  the  particular  time  of  the  proposal.  It  might 
be  a  wild  exaggeration  to  fear  that  he  was  in  danger  of  being  led 
to  adopt  the  stage  as  a  calling,  but  he  was  certainly  about  to 
place  himself  within  reach  of  not  a  few  of  its  drawbacks  and  dis- 
advantages.   To  the  full  extent  he  perhaps  did  not  himself  know,  Disadvan- 

tages  01 

how  much  his  eager  present  wish  to  become  a  public  reader  was  public 

.       .  reading. 

but  the  outcome  of  the  restless  domestic  discontents  of  the  last 
four  years ;  and  that  to  indulge  it,  and  the  unsettled  habits  in- 
separable from  it,  was  to  abandon  every  hope  of  resettling  his 
disordered  home.  There  is  nothing,  in  its  appHcation  to  so 
divine  a  genius  as  Shakespeare,  more  affecting  than  his  expressed 
dislike  to  a  profession,  which,  in  the  jealous  self-watchfulness  of 

*  *  You  may  as  well  know '  (20th  of  *  As  she  wished  me  to  ask  B,  who  was 

March  1858)  '  that  I  went  on '  (I  de-  *  in  another  room,  I  did  so.    She  was 

signate  the  ladies  by  A  and  B  respec-  '  for  a  moment  tremendously  discon- 

tively)  *  and  propounded  the  matter  to  *  certed,  **  under  the  impression  that  it 

*  A,  without  any  preparation.  Result.  ^     was  to  lead  to   the  sta^e"  {I  I). 

*  — "I  am  surprised,  and  I  should  '  Then,  without  knowing  anything  of 

*  "  have  been  surprised  if  I  had  seen  '  A's  opinion,   closely  followed  it. 

*  *'  it  in  the  newspaper  without  pre-  *  That  absurd  association  had  never 
'  "  vious  confidence  from  you.    But  *  entered  my  head  or  yours  ;  but  it 

*  **  nothing  more.  N — no.  Certainly  '  might  enter  some  other  heads  for  all 
'"not.  Nothing  more.  I  don't  see  'that.  Take  these  two  opinions  for 
'  "  that  there  is  anything  derogatory  *  whatever  they  are  worth.  A  (being 
'  "  in  it,  even  now  when  you  ask  me  *  very  much  interested  and  very  anxious 

*  "  that  question.  I  think  upon  the  '  tohelp  to  aright  conclusion)  proposed 
'  ' '  whole  that  most  people  would  be  '  to  ask  a  few  people  of  various  de- 
'  "  glad  you  should  have  the  money,  '  grees  who  know  what  the  Reading* 
'"  rather  than  other  people.  It  might  'are,  what  they  think — not  compro- 

*  "  be  misunderstood  here  and  there,  '  misingme,  but  suggesting  the  project 


C  { 


'  at  first ;  but  I  think  the  thing  '  afar-off,  as  an  idea  in  somebody 
*  would  very  soon  express  itself,  and     *  else's  mind.  I  thanked  her,  and  said 


*  "  that  your  own  power  of  making  it     '  "  Yes,"  of  course.' 

•  **  express  itself  would  be  very  great." 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  Vlll. 


his  noble  nature,  he  feared  might  hurt  his  mind.*  The  long  sub- 
sequent line  of  actors  admirable  in  private  as  in  public  life,  and 
all  the  gentle  and  generous  associations  of  the  histrionic  art,  have 
not  weakened  the  testimony  of  its  greatest  name  against  its  less 
favourable  influences ;  against  the  laxity  of  habits  it  may  en- 
courage ;  and  its  public  manners,  bred  of  public  means,  not 
always  compatible  with  home  felicities  and  duties.  But,  freely 
open  as  Dickens  was  to  counsel  in  regard  of  his  books,  he  was, 
for  reasons  formerly  stated,t  less  accessible  to  it  on  points  of 
personal  conduct ;  and  when  he  had  neither  self-distrust  nor  self- 
denial  to  hold  him  back,  he  would  push  persistently  forward  to 
whatever  object  he  had  in  view. 

An  occurrence  of  the  time  hastened  the  decision  in  this  case. 
An  enterprise  had  been  set  on  foot  for  establishment  of  a  hos- 
pital for  sick  children ;  J  a  large  old-fashioned  mansion  in  Great 
Ormond-street,  with  spacious  garden,  had  been  fitted  up  with 
more  than  thirty  beds  ;  during  the  four  or  five  years  of  its  exist- 
ence, outdoor  and  indoor  relief  had  been  afforded  by  it  to  nearly 
fifty  thousand  children,  of  whom  thirty  thousand  were  under  five 
years  of  age ;  but,  want  of  funds  having  threatened  to  arrest  the 
merciful  work,  it  was  resolved  to  try  a  public  dinner  by  way  of 
charitable  appeal,  and  for  president  the  happy  choice  was  made 
of  one  who  had  enchanted  everybody  with  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  little  children.  Dickens  threw  himself  into  the  service  heart 
and  soul.    There  was  a  simple  pathos  in  his  address  from  the 


*  Oh  !  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune 
chide 

The  guilty  goddess    of    my  harmful 
deeds, 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners 
breeds. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a 
brand  ; 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  sub- 
du'd  ; 

To  what  it  works  in,   like  the  dyer's 
hand.  .  . 

Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  re- 
new'd.  .  - 

Sonnet  cxi. 
And  in  the  preceding  Sonnet  ex. 


Alas  !  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what 
is  most  dear.  .  . 

+  See  the  remarks  made  ante^  i.  40. 

X  The  Board  of  Health  returns, 
showing  that  out  of  every  annual  thou- 
sand of  deaths  in  London,  the  immense 
proportion  of  four  hundred  were  those 
of  children  under  four  years  old,  had 
established  the  necessity  for  such  a 
scheme.  Of  course  the  stress  of  this 
mortality  fell  on  the  children  of  the 
poor,  *  dragged  up  rather  than  brought 
*  up,'  as  Charles  Lamb  expressed  it, 
and  perishing  unhelped  by  the  way. 


§11.]  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


249 


chair  quite  startling  in  its  effect  at  such  a  meeting ;  and  he  pro-  London  : 

bably  never  moved  any  audience  so  much  as  by  the  strong  per-  

sonal  feeHng  with  which  he  referred  to  the  sacrifices  made  for  the  o/^Jjjfpoof 
Hospital  by  the  very  poor  themselves  :  from  whom  a  subscription 
of  fifty  pounds,  contributed  in  single  pennies,  had  come  to  the 
treasurer  during  almost  every  year  it  had  been  open.  The  whole 
speech,  indeed,  is  the  best  of  the  kind  spoken  by  him ;  and  two 
little  pictures  from  it,  one  of  the  misery  he  had  witnessed,  the 
other  of  the  remedy  he  had  found,  should  not  be  absent  from  the 
picture  of  his  own  life. 

'  Some  years  ago,  being  in  Scotland,  I  went  with  one  of  the 
'  most  humane  members  of  the  most  humane  of  professions,  on 

*  a  morning  tour  among  some  of  the  worst  lodged  inhabitants  of 

*  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh.    In  the  closes  and  wyrids  of  that 

*  picturesque  place  (I  am  sorry  to  remind  you  what  fast  friends 

*  picturesqueness  and  typhus  often  are),  we  saw  more  poverty 

*  and  sickness  in  an  hour  than  many  people  would  believe  in,  in 

*  a  life.    Our  way  lay  from  one  to  another  of  the  most  wretched 

*  dwellings,  reeking  with  horrible  odours  j  shut  out  from  the  sky 

*  and  from  the  air,  mere  pits  and  dens.    In  a  room  in  one  of 

*  these  places,  where  there  was  an  empty  porridge-pot  on  the  cold 

*  hearth,  a  ragged  woman  and  some  ragged  children  crouching  on  a  sad 

*  the  bare  ground  near  it, — and,  I  remember  as  I  speak,  where 
'  the  very  light,  refracted  from  a  high  damp-stained  wall  outside, 

*  came  in  trembling,  as  if  the  fever  which  had  shaken  everything 

*  else  had  shaken  even  it, — there  lay,  in  an  old  egg-box  which  the 

*  mother  had  begged  fi-om  a  shop,  a  little,  feeble,  wan,  sick  child. 

*  With  his  little  wasted  face,  and  his  little^  hot  worn  hands  folded 
'  over  his  breast,  and  his  little  bright  attentive  eyes,  I  can  see  him 

*  now,  as  I  have  seen  him  for  several  years,  looking  steadily  at  us. 

*  There  he  lay  in  his  small  frail  box,  which  was  not  at  all  a  bad  Smaii 

*  emblem  of  the  small  body  from  which  he  was  slowly  parting —  p"""^"*' 
'  there  he  lay,  quite  quiet,  quite  patient,  saying  never  a  word.  He 

*  seldom  cried,  the  mother  said  ;  he  seldom  complained  ;  "  he  lay 

*  "  there,  seemin'  to  woonder  what  it  was  a'  abooL"    God  knows, 

*  I  thought,  as  I  stood  looking  at  him,  he  had  his  reasons  for 

*  wondering  .  .  .  Many  a  poor  child,  sick  and  neglected,  I  have 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI i I. 


*  seen  since  that  time  in  London ;  many  have  I  also  seen  most 

*  affectionately  tended,  in  unwholesome  houses  and  hard  circum- 
*■  stances  where  recovery  was  impossible  ;  but  at  all  such  times  I 

*  have  seen  my  little  drooping  friend  in  his  egg-box,  and  he  has 

*  always  addressed  his  dumb  wonder  to  me  what  it  meant,  and 

*  why,  in  the  name  of  a  gracious  God,  such  things  should  be !  .  .  . 

*  But,  ladies  and  gentlemen,'  Dickens  added,  *  such  things  need 

*  NOT  be,  and  will  not  be,  if  this  company,  which  is  a  drop  of  the 

*  life-blood  of  the  great  compassionate  public  heart,  will  only 

*  accept  the  means  of  rescue  and  prevention  which  it  is  mine  to 
'  offer.  Within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  this  place  where  I  speak, 
*■  stands  a  once  courtly  old  house,  where  blooming  children  were 

*  bom,  and  grew  up  to  be  men  and  women,  and  married,  and 
'  brought  their  own  blooming  children  back  to  patter  up  the  old 

*  oak  staircase  which  stood  but  the  other  day,  and  to  wonder  at 

*  the  old  oak  carvings  on  the  chimney-pieces.    In  the  airy  wards 

*  into  which  the  old  state  drawing-rooms  and  family  bedchambers 

*  of  that  house  are  now  converted,  are  lodged  such  small  patients 

*  that  the  attendant  nurses  look  like  reclaimed  giantesses,  and  the 
'  kind  medical  practitioner  like  an   amiable  Christian  ogre. 

*  Grouped  about  the  little  low  tables  in  the  centre  of  the  rooms, 

*  are  such  tiny  convalescents  that  they  seem  to  be  playing  at 

*  having  been  ill.     On  the  doll's  beds  are  such  diminutive 

*  creatures  that  each  poor  sufferer  is  supplied  with  its  tray  of  toys  : 

*  and,  looking  round,  you  may  see  how  the  little  tired  flushed 

*  cheek  has  toppled  over  half  the  brute  creation  on  its  way  into 

*  the  ark ;  or  how  one  little  dimpled  arm  has  mowed  down  (as  I 

*  saw  myself)  the  whole  tin  soldiery  of  Europe.*    On  the  walls  of 

*  these  rooms  are  graceful,  pleasant,  bright,  childish  pictures.  At 

*  the  beds'  heads,  hang  representations  of  the  figure  which  is  the 

*  universal  embodiment  of  all  mercy  and  compassion,  the  figure 

*  of  Him  who  was  once  a  child  Himself,  and  a  poor  one.  But 
'  alas  !  reckoning  up  the  number  of  beds  that  are  there,  the 
'  visitor  to  this  Child's  Hospital  will  find  himself  perforce  obliged 

*  to  stop  at  very  little  over  thirty ;  and  will  learn,  with  sorrow  and 

*  The  reader  may  be  referred  to  the  for  the  uses  to  which  Dickens  after- 
ninth  chapter  of  Our  Mutual  Friend    wards  turned  this  touching  experience. 


§  11.]  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


251 


*  surprise,  that  even  that  small  number,  so  forlornly,  so  miserably  London  : 

*  diminutive  compared  with  this  vast  London,  cannot  possibly  be  -  ~ 

*  maintained  unless  the  Hospital  be  made  better  known.    I  limit 

*  myself  to  saying  better  known,  because  I  will  not  believe  that  in 

*  a  Christian  community  of  fathers  and  mothers,  and  brothers  and 

*  sisters,  it  can  fail,  being  better  known,  to  be  well  and  richly 

*  endowed.'  It  was  a  brave  and  true  prediction.  The  Child's 
Hospital  has  never  since  known  want.  That  night  alone  added 
greatly  more  than  three  thousand  pounds  to  its  funds,  and  Dickens 
put  the  crown  to  his  good  work  by  reading  on  its  behalf,  shortly 
afterwards,  his  Christ7nas  Carol ;  when  the  sum  realized,  and  the 
urgent  demand  that  followed  for  a  repetition  of  the  pleasure 
given  by  the  reading,  bore  down  farther  opposition  to  the  project  Hospital, 
of  his  engaging  publicly  in  such  readings  for  himself. 

The  Child's  Hospital  night  was  the  9th  of  February,  its  Reading 
was  appointed  for  the  15th  of  April,  and,  nearly  a  month  before, 
renewed  efforts  at  remonstrance  had  been  made.    '  Your  view 

*  of  the  reading  matter,'  Dickens  replied,  *  I  still  think  is  uncon- 

*  sciously  taken  from  your  own  particular  point.    You  don't  seem 

*  to  me  to  get  out  of  yourself  in  considering  it.    A  word  more 

*  upon  it.    You  are  not  to  think  I  have  made  up  my  mind.    If  I 

*  had,  why  should  I  not  say  so  ?    I  find  very  great  difficulty  in 

*  doing  so  because  of  what  you  urge,  because  I  know  the  question 

*  to  be  a  balance  of  doubts,  and  because  I  most  honestly  feel  in 

*  my  innermost  heart,  in  this  matter  (as  in  all  others  for  years  and 

*  years),  the  honour  of  the  calling  by  which  I  have  always  stood 

*  most  conscientiously.    But  do  you  quite  consider  that  the  public  Reasons' 

*  exhibition  of  oneself  takes  place  equally,  whosoever  may  get  jj" 

*  the  money  ?    And  have  you  any  idea  that  at  this  moment — this 

*  very  time — half  the  public  at  least  supposes  me  to  be  paid  ? 

*  My  dear  F,  out  of  the  twenty  or  five-and-twenty  letters  a  week  that 

*  I  get  about  Readings,  twenty  will  ask  at  what  price,  or  on  what 

*  terms,  it  can  be  done.    The  only  exceptions,  in  truth,  are  when 

*  the  correspondent  is  a  clergyman,  or  a  banker,  or  the  member 

*  for  the  place  in  question.  Why,  at  this  very  time  half  Scotland 
'  believes  that  I  am  paid  for  going  to  Edinburgh  ! — Here  is 

*  Greenock  writes  to  me,  and  asks  could  it  be  done  for  a  hundred 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Book  VIII. 


*  pounds  ?  There  is  Aberdeen  writes,  and  states  the  capacity  of 
'  its  hall,  and  says,  though  far  less  profitable  than  the  very  large 

*  hall  in  Edinburgh,  is  it  not  enough  to  come  on  for  ?  W.  answers 
'  such  letters  continually.  ( — At  this  place  enter  Beale.  He 

*  called  here  yesterday  morning,  and  then  wrote  to  ask  if  I  would 
'  see  him  to-day.    I  replied  "  Yes,"  so  here  he  came  in.  With 

*  long  preface  called  to  know  whether  it  was  possible  to  arrange 

*  anything  in  the  way  of  Readings  for  this  autumn — say,  six 

*  months.    Large  capital  at  command.    Could  produce  partners, 

*  in  such  an  enterprise,  also  with  large  capital.   Represented  such. 

*  Returns  would  be  enormous.  Would  I  name  a  sum  ?  a  minimum 
'  sum  that  I  required  to  have,  in  any  case  ?  Would  I  look  at  it  as 

*  a  Fortune,  and  in  no  other  point  of  view  ?    I  shook  my  head, 

*  and  said,  my  tongue  was  tied  on  the  subject  for  the  present ;  I 
'  might  be  more  communicative  at  another  time.    Exit  Beale  in 

*  confusion  and  disappointment.) — You  will  be  happy  to  hear  that 

*  at  one  on  Friday,  the  Lord  Provost,  Dean  of  Guild,  Magistrates, 

*  and  Council  of  the  ancient  city  of  Edinburgh  will  wait  (in  pro- 

*  cession)  on  their  brother  freeman,  at  the  Music  Hall,  to  give 

*  him  hospitable  welcome.     Their  brother  freeman  has  been 

*  cursing  their  stars  and  his  own,  ever  since  the  receipt  of  solemn 

*  notification  to  this  effect'  But  very  grateful,  when  it  came,  was 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  greeting,  and  welcome  the  gift  of  the  silver 
wassail-bowl  which  followed  the  reading  of  the  Carol.    '  I  had  no 

*  opportunity  of  asking  any  one's  advice  in  Edinburgh,'  he  wrote 
on  his  return.    *  The  crowd  was  too  enormous,  and  the  excitement 

*  in  it  much  too  great    But  my  determination  is  all  but  taken.  I 

*  must  do  somethings  or  I  shall  wear  my  heart  away.  I  can  see  no 
'  better  thing  to  do  that  is  half  so  hopeful  in  itself,  or  half  so  well 

*  suited  to  my  restless  state.' 

What  is  pointed  at  in  those  last  words  had  been  taken  as  a 
ground  of  objection,  and  thus  he  turned  it  into  an  argument  the 
other  way.  During  all  these  months  many  sorrowful  misunder- 
standings had  continued  in  his  home,  and  the  relief  sought  from 
the  misery  had  but  the  effect  of  making  desperate  any  hope  of  a 
better  understanding.  *  It  becomes  necessary,'  he  wrote  at  the 
end  of  March,  *  with  a  view  to  the  arrangements  that  would  have 


§11.] 


What  Happened  at  this  Time. 


253 


*  to  be  begun  next  month  if  I  decided  on  the  Readings,  to  con-  London: 

*  sider  and  settle  the  question  of  the  Plunge.    Quite  dismiss  from  

*  your  mind  any  reference  whatever  to  present  circumstances  Question  of 

.  .         ^      .  the  Plunge. 

*  at  home.    Nothmg  can  put  them  right,  until  we  are  all  dead 

*  and  buried  and  risen.  It  is  not,  with  me,  a  matter  of  will,  or 
'  trial,  or  sufferance,  or  good  humour,  or  making  the  best  of  it,  or 

*  making  the  worst  of  it,  any  longer.    It  is  all  despairingly  over. 

*  Have  no  lingering  hope  of,  or  for,  me  in  this  association.  A 

*  dismal  failure  has  to  be  borne,  and  there  an  end.     Will  you 

*  then  try  to  think  of  this  reading  project  (as  I  do)  apart  from  all 

*  personal  likings  and  dislikings,  and  solely  with  a  view  to  its 
'  effect  on  that  particular  relation  (personally  affectionate  and  like 

*  no  other  man's)  which  subsists  between  me  and  the  public?  I 

*  want  your  most  careful  consideration.  If  you  would  like,  when 
'  you  have  gone  over  it  in  your  mind,  to  discuss  the  matter  with  me 

*  and  Arthur  Smith  (who  would  manage  the  whole  of  the  Business, 

*  which  I  should  never  touch) ;  we  will  make  an  appointment. 

*  But  I  ought  to  add  that  Arthur  Smith  plainly  says,     Of  the 

*  "  immense  return  in  money,  I  have  no  doubt.    Of  the  Dash 

*  "  into  the  new  position,  however,  I  am  not  so  good  a  judge." 

*  I  enclose  you  a  rough  note  *  of  my  project,  as  it  stands  in  my 

*  mind.' 

*  Here  is  the  rough  note  :  in  which 
the  reader  will  be  interested  to  observe 
the  limits  originally  placed  to  the  pro- 
posal. The  first  Readings  were  to 
comprise  only  the  Carols  and  for 
others  a  new  story  was  to  be  written. 
He  had  not  yet  the  full  confidence  in 
his  power  or  versatility  as  an  actor 
which  subsequent  experience  gave  him. 

*  I  propose  to  announce  in  a  short  and 

*  plain  advertisement  (what  is  quite 

*  true)  that  I  cannot  so  much  as  answer 
'  the  numerous  applications  that  are 
'  made  to  me  to  read,  and  that  com- 

*  pliance  with  ever  so  few  of  them  is, 

*  in  any  reason,  impossible.    That  I 

*  have  therefore  resolved  upon  a 
'  course  of  readings  of  the  Christmas 
'  Carol  both  in  town  and  country,  and 

*  that  those  in  London  will  take  place 


*  at  St.  Martin's  Hall  on  certain  even-  First  rough 

*  ings.    Those  evenings  will  be  either  ?eadiSl° 

*  four  or  six  Thursdays,  in  May  and 

*  the  beginning  of  June  ...  I  pro- 

*  pose  an   Autumn   Tour,    for  the 

*  country,  extending  through  August, 

*  September,  and  October.    It  would 

*  comprise  the  Eastern  Counties,  the 

*  West,    Lancashire,  Yorkshire,  and 

*  Scotland.    I  should  read  from  35  to 

*  40  times  in  this  tour,  at  the  least. 

*  At  each  place  where  there  was  a 

*  great  success,  I  would  myself  an- 

*  nounce  that  I  should  come  back,  on 
'  the  turn  of  Christmas,  to  read  a  new 

*  Christmas  story  written  for  that 
'  purpose.    This  story  I  should  first 

*  read  a  certain  number  of  times  m 
'  London.    I  have  the  strongest  belief 

*  that  by  April  in  next  year,  a  very 


254 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London:      Mr.  Arthur  Smith,  a  man  possessed  of  many  qualities  that 

 '■ —  justified  the  confidence  Dickens  placed  in  him,  might  not  have 

Smith.  been  a  good  judge  of  the  *  Dash  '  into  the  new  position,  but  no 
man  knew  better  every  disadvantage  incident  to  it,  or  was  less 
likely  to  be  disconcerted  by  any.  His  exact  fitness  to  manage 
the  scheme  successfully,  made  him  an  unsafe  counseller  respecting 
it.  Within  a  week  from  this  time  the  reading  for  the  Charity  was 
Child's-  to  be  given.  *  They  have  let,'  Dickens  wrote  on  the  9th  of  April, 
reading.  *  fivc  hundred  stalls  for  the  Hospital  night ;  and  as  people  come 
^  every  day  for  more,  and  it  is  out  of  the  question  to  make  more, 

*  they  cannot  be  restrained  at  St  Martin's  Hall  from  taking  down 

*  names  for  other  Readings.'  This  closed  the  attempt  at  farther 
objection.  Exactly  a  fortnight  after  the  reading  for  the  children's 
hospital,  on  Thursday  the  29th  April,  came  the  first  public 
reading  for  his  own  benefit ;  and  before  the  next  month  was  over, 
this  launch  into  a  new  life  had  been  followed  by  a  change  in  his 

Change  in  old  home.  Theuccforward  he  and  his  wife  lived  apart.  The 
eldest  son  went  with  his  mother,  Dickens  at  once  giving  effect  to 
her  expressed  wish  in  this  respect ;  and  the  other  children  re- 
mained with  himself,  their  intercourse  with  Mrs.  Dickens  being 
left  entirely  to  themselves.  It  was  thus  far  an  arrangement  of  a 
strictly  private  nature,  and  no  decent  person  could  have  had 
excuse  for  regarding  it  in  any  other  light,  if  public  attention  had 
not  been  unexpectedly  invited  to  it  by  a  printed  statement  in 
Unwise  Household  Words,  Dickens  was  stung  into  this  by  some  miser- 
statement  able  gossip  at  which  in  ordinary  circumstances  no  man  would 
more  determinedly  have  been  silent ;  but  he  had  now  publicly  to 
show  himself,  at  stated  times,  as  a  public  entertainer,  and  this, 
with  his  name  even  so  aspersed,  he  found  to  be  impossible.  All 

*  large  sum  of  money  indeed  would  *  Readings    and   to    nothing  else, 

*  be  gained  by  these  means.    Ireland  *  opened  in  London  ;  I  would  have 

*  would  be  still  untouched,  and  I  con-  *  the  advertisements  emanating  from 

*  ceive  America  alone  (if  I  could  *  it,  and  also  signed  by  some  one  be- 
'  resolve  to  go  there)  to  be  worth  Ten  *  longing  to  it ;  and  they  should  al- 

*  Thousand   Pounds.     In  all  these  '  ways  mention  me  as  a  third  person — 

*  proceedings,  the  Business  would  be  *  just  as  the  Child's  Hospital,  for  in- 

*  wholly  detached  from  me,  and  I  *  stance,    in   addressing  the  public, 

*  should  never  appear  in  it.    I  would  '  mentions  mCf' 
'  have   an  office,  belonging  to  the 


§  in.] 


Gadshill  Place. 


255 


he  would  concede  to  my  strenuous  resistance  against  such  a 
publication,  was  an  offer  to  suppress  it,  if,  upon  reference  to  the 
opinion  of  a  certain  distinguished  man  (still  living),  that  opinion  'ie"er.' 
should  prove  to  be  in  agreement  with  mine.  Unhappily  it  fell  in 
with  his  own,  and  the  publication  went  on.  It  was  foUov/ed  by 
another  statement,  a  letter  subscribed  with  his  name,  which  got 
into  print  without  his  sanction ;  nothing  publicly  being  known 
of  it  (I  was  not  among  those  who  had  read  it  privately)  imtil  it 
appeared  in  the  N'ew  York  Tribune.  It  had  been  addressed 
and  given  to  Mr.  Arthur  Smith  as  an  authority  for  correction 
of  false  rumours  and  scandals,  and  Mr.  Smith  had  given  a  copy 
of  it,  with  like  intention,  to  the  Tribune  correspondent  in 
London.  Its  writer  referred  to  it  always  afterwards  as  his  *  vio- 
*  lated  letter.' 

The  course  taken  by  the  author  of  this  book  at  the  time  of 
these  occurrences,  will  not  be  departed  from  here.  Such  illus- 
tration of  grave  defects  in  Dickens's  character  as  the  passage  in 
his  life  affords,  I  have  not  shrunk  from  placing  side  by  side  with 
such  excuses  in  regard  to  it  as  he  had  unquestionable  right  to 
claim  should  be  put  forward  also.    How  far  what  remained  of  what  alone 

concerned 

his  Story  took  tone  or  colour  from  it,  and  especially  from  the  public, 
altered  career  on  which  at  the  same  time  he  entered,  will  thus  be 
sufficiently  explained ;  and  with  anything  else  the  public  have 
nothing  to  do. 


III. 

GADSHILL  PLACE. 
1856— 1870. 

'  I  WAS  better  pleased  with  Gadshill  Place  last  Saturday,'  he  Gadshiu. 
wrote  to  me  from  Paris  on  the  13th  of  February  1856,  'on  going  i856-7a 

*  down  there,  even  than  I  had  prepared  myself  to  be.  The 

*  country,  against  every  disadvantage  of  season,  is  beautiful ;  and 
'  the  house  is  so  old  fashioned,  cheerful,  and  comfortable,  that  it 


256 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


Gadshill  *  is  really  pleasant  to  look  at.    The  good  old  Rector  now  there, 
1856-70.*    *■  has  lived  in  it  six  and  twenty  years,  so  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
First  de-     *  turn  him  out.    He  is  to  remain  till  Lady-Day  next  year,  when 
oTir  "       '  I  shall  go  in,  please  God  ;  make  ray  alterations ;  furnish  the 

*  house ;  and  keep  it  for  myself  that  summer.'  Returning  to 
England  through  the  Kentish  country  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins 
in  July,  other  advantages  occurred  to  him.    *  A  railroad  opened 

*  from  Rochester  to  Maidstone,  which  connects  Gadshill  at  once 
Expected     '  with  the  whole  sea  coast,  is  certainly  an  addition  to  the  place, 

advantages. 

*  and  an  enhancement  of  its  value.    Bye  and  bye  we  shall  have 

*  the  London,  Chatham  and  Dover,  too ;  and  that  will  bring  it 

*  within  an  hour  of  Canterbury  and  an  hour  and  a  half  of  Dover. 

*  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  having  been  in  the  neighbourhood. 

*  There  is  no  healthier  (marshes  avoided),  and  none  in  my  eyes 

*  more  beautiful.  One  of  these  days  I  shall  show  you  some  places 
'  up  the  Medway  with  which  you  will  be  charmed.' 

The  association  with  his  youthful  fancy  that  first  made  the 
place  attractive  to  him  has  been  told ;  and  it  was  with  wonder  he 
had  heard  one  day,  from  his  friend  and  fellow  worker  at  House- 
hold Words,  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  that  not  only  was  the  house  for 
sale  to  which  he  had  so  often  looked  wistfully,  but  that  the  lady 
chiefly  interested  as  its  owner  had  been  long  known  and  much 
esteemed  by  himself.  Such  curious  chances  led  Dickens  to  the 
saying  he  so  frequently  repeated  about  the  smallness  of  the  world 
(anU,  i.  69)  j  but  the  close  relation  often  found  thus  existing 
between  things  and  persons  far  apart,  suggests  not  so  much  the 
smallness  of  the  world  as  the  possible  importance  of  the  least 
things  done  in  it,  and  is  better  explained  by  the  grander  teaching 
of  Carlyle,  that  causes  and  effects,  connecting  every  man  and 
thing  with  every  other,  extend  through  all  space  and  time. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  1855  the  negociation  for  its  purchase 
began.  *They  wouldn't,'  he  wrote  (25th  of  November),  *take 
*;£i7oo  for  the  Gadshill  property, but  "finally"  wanted  ;^i8oo. 
Negocia-  *  I  have  finally  offered  ;£'i75o.  It  will  require  an  expenditure  of 
purchase.  *  about ;^3oo  more  before  yielding  ;^ioo  a  year.'  The  usual 
discovery  of  course  awaited  him  that  this  first  estimate  would 
have  to  be  increased  threefold.    '  The  changes  absolutely  neces- 


t  I  IT.]                     Gadshill  Place.  257 

*sary'(9th  of  February  1856)  *will  take  a  thousand  pounds;  GKD^mx.\. 

*  which  sum  I  am  always  resolving  to  squeeze  out  of  this,  grind  ^856-70. 

*  out  of  that,  and  wring  out  of  the  other  ;  this,  that,  and  the  other 


The  Porch 
at  GadshilU 


*  generally  all  three  declining  to  come  up  to  the  scratch  for  the 

*  purpose.'    *  This  day,'  *  he  wrote  on  the  14th  of  March,  *I  have 

*  paid  the  purchase-money  for  Gadshill  Place.  After  drawing  the 
'  cheque       1790)  I  turned  round  to  give  it  to  Wills,  and  said, 

*  On   New  Year's   Day  he  had  *  title  of  my  estate,  sir,  my  place  down 

written  from  Paris.  '  When  in  London  *  in  Kent)  until  the  conveyance  was 

*  Coutts's  advised  me  not  to  sell  out  *  settled  and  ready.' 
the  money  for  Gadshill  Place  (the 

VOL.  II.  8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


Gadshill  ^  "  Now  isn't  it  an  extraordinary  thing — look  at  the  Day — Friday  ! 
1 856-70-  '  "  I  have  been  nearly  drawing  it  half  a  dozen  times  when  the 
*■  "lawyers  have  not  been  ready,  and  here  it  comes  round  upon  a 
*  "  Friday  as  a  matter  of  course."  '  He  had  no  thought  at  this 
time  of  reserving  the  place  wholly  for  himself,  or  of  making  it  his 
own  residence  except  at  intervals  of  summer.  He  looked  upon 
it  as  an  investment  only.  '  You  will  hardly  know  Gadshill  again,' 
he  wrote  in  January  1858,  'I  am  improving  it  so  much — yet  I 
'  have  no  interest  in  the  place.'  But  continued  ownership  brought 
increased  liking  ;  he  took  more  and  more  interest  in  his  own  im- 

interest      provcmcnts,  which  were  just  the  kind  of  occasional  occupation 

in  it  in-  .       .  .  , 

creasing.  and  rcsource  his  life  most  wanted  m  its  next  seven  or  eight 
years ;  and  any  farther  idea  of  letting  it  he  soon  abandoned 
altogether.  It  only  once  passed  out  of  his  possession  thus,  for 
four  months  in  1859;  in  the  following  year,  on  the  sale  of 
Tavistock  House,  he  transferred  to  it  his  books  and  pictures  and 
choicer  furniture ;  and  thenceforward,  varied  only  by  houses 
taken  from  time  to  time  for  the  London  season,  he  made  it  his 

His  home    permanent  family  abode.    Now  and  then,  even  during  those 

from  1859.  ygg^j,g^  would  talk  of  selling  it ;  and  on  his  final  return  from 
America,  when  he  had  sent  the  last  of  his  sons  out  into  the 
world,  he  really  might  have  sold  it  if  he  could  then  have  found  a 
house  in  London  suitable  to  him,  and  such  as  he  could  purchase. 
But  in  this  he  failed ;  secretly  to  his  own  satisfaction,  as  I  be- 
lieve ;  and  thereupon,  in  that  last  autumn  of  his  life,  he  projected 

Additions,  and  Carried  out  his  most  costly  addition  to  Gadshill.  Already  of 
course  more  money  had  been  spent  upon  it  than  his  first  inten- 
tion in  buying  it  would  have  justified.  He  had  so  enlarged  the 
accommodation,  improved  the  grounds  and  offices,  and  added  to 
the  land,  that,  taking  also  into  account  this  closing  outlay,  the 
reserved  price  placed  upon  the  whole  after  his  death  more  than 
quadrupled  what  he  had  given  in  1856  for  the  house,  shrubbery, 
and  twenty  years'  lease  of  a  meadow  field.  It  was  then  purchased, 
and  is  now  inhabited,  by  his  eldest  son. 

Its  position  has  been  described,  and  a  history  of  Rochester 

P.  30a.  published  a  hundred  years  ago  quaintly  mentions  the  principal 
interest  of  the  locality.    'Near  the  twenty-seventh  stone  from 


§  III.] 


Gadshill  Place. 


259 


*  London  is  Gadshill,  supposed  to  have  been  the  scene  of  the  Gadshill 

'      ^  ^  Place: 

*  robbery  mentioned  by  Shakespeare  in  his  play  of  Henry  IV ;  1856-70. 

*  there  being  reason  to  think  also  that  it  was  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Gadshiii  a 

century 

*  of  truly  comic  memory,  who  under  the  name  of  Oldcastle  a?o. 

*  inhabited  Cooling  Castle  of  which  the  ruins  are  in  the  neigh- 

*  bourhood.  A  small  distance  to  the  left  appears  on  an  eminence 
'  the  Hermitage,  the  seat  of  the  late  Sir  Francis  Head,  Bart ;  * 
^  and  close  to  the  road,  on  a  small  ascent,  is  a  neat  building 

*  lately  erected  by  Mr.  Day.    In  descending  Strood-hill  is  a  fine 

*  prospect  of  Strood,  Rochester,  and  Chatham,  which  three  towns 

*  form  a  continued  street  extending  above  two  miles  in  length.' 
It  had  been  supposed  f  that  '  the  neat  building  lately  erected  by 

*  Mr.  Day '  was  that  which  the  great  novelist  made  famous  ;  but 
Gadshill  Place  had  no  existence  until  eight  years  after  the  date  ^^l^^^ 
of  the  history.    The  good  rector  who  so  long  lived  in  it  told  me,  JJj^^g"^'* 
in  1859,  that  it  had  been  built  eighty  years  before  by  a  well-known 
character  in  those  parts,  one  Stevens,  grand-father-in-law  of 
Henslow  the  Cambridge  professor  of  botany.   Stevens,  who  could 

only  with  much  difficulty  manage  to  write  his  name,  had  begun 
life  as  ostler  at  an  inn ;  had  become  husband  to  the  landlord's 
widow ;  then  a  brewer  ;  and  finally,  as  he  subscribed  himself  on 
one  occasion,  *■  mare  '  of  Rochester.  Afterwards  the  house  was  its  own- 
inhabited  by  Mr.  Lynn  (from  some  of  the  members  of  whose  tenants, 
family  Dickens  made  his  purchase)  ;  and,  before  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Hindle  became  its  tenant,  it  was  inhabited  by  a  Macaroni  parson 
named  Townshend,  whose  horses  the  Prince  Regent  bought, 
throwing  into  the  bargain  a  box  of  much  desired  cigars.  Alto- 
gether the  place  had  notable  associations  even  apart  from  those 
which  have  connected  it  with  the  masterpieces  of  English  humour. 
*■  This  House,  Gadshill  Place,  stands  on  the  summit  of 

*  Shakespeare's  Gadshill,  ever  memorable  for  its  association  with 

•  Two  houses  now  stand  on  what  that  court  out  of  Tavistock-square  of 

was  Sir  Francis  Head's  estate,  the  which  Tavistock  House  formed  part, 

Great  and  Little  Hermitage,  occupied  had  occupied  the  Great  Hermitage 

respectively  by  Mr.  Malleson  and  Mr.  previously. 

Hulkes,  who  both  became  intimate        +  By  the  obliging  correspondent 

with  Dickens.    Perry  of  the  Morning  who  sent  me  this  History  of  Rochester^ 

Chronicle^  whose  tovni  house  was  in  8vo.    (Rochester,  1772). 

s  2 


26o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


Gadshill  '  Sir  John  Falstaff  in  his  noble  fancy.    But,  my  lads,  my  lads, 
1856-70.'    ''to-morrow  morning,  by  four  d  clock,  early  at  Gadshill!  there  are 
Greeting tc  '■pilgrims  gotng  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offerings,  and  traders 

visitors.  •        t  /• 

'■  riding  to  London  with  fat  purses  :  I  have  vizards  for  you  all ; 
^  you  have  horses  for  yourselves.^  Illuminated  by  Mr.  Owen  Jones, 
and  placed  in  a  frame  on  the  first-floor  landing,  these  words  were 
the  greeting  of  the  new  tenant  to  his  visitors.  It  was  his  first  act 
of  ownership. 

All  his  improvements,  it  should  perhaps  be  remarked,  were  not 
exclusively  matters  of  choice;  and  to  illustrate  by  his  letters 
what  befell  at  the  beginning  ot  his  changes,  will  show  what 
attended  them  to  the  close.  His  earliest  difficulty  was  very  grave. 
There  was  only  one  spring  of  water  for  gentlefolk  and  villagers, 
and  from  some  of  the  houses  or  cottages  it  was  two  miles  away. 

*  We  are  still '  (6th  of  July)  *  boring  for  water  here,  at  the  rate  of 
'  two  pounds  per  day  for  wages.    The  men  seem  to  like  it  very 

*  much,  and  to  be  perfectly  comfortable.*  Another  of  his  earliest 
experiences  (5th  of  September)  was  thus  expressed :  '  Hop- 
'  picking  is  going  on,  and  people  sleep  in  the  garden,  and 

*  breathe  in  at  the  keyhole  of  the  house  door.     I  have  been 
JJ^P-P'*^^'    *  amazed,  before  this  year,  by  the  number  of  miserable  lean 

'  wretches,  hardly  able  to  crawl,  who  go  hop-picking.    I  find  it  is 

*  a  superstition  that  the  dust  of  the  newly  picked  hop,  falling 
'  freshly  into  the  throat,  is  a  cure  for  consumption.  So  the  poor 
'  creatures  drag  themselves  along  the  roads,  and  sleep  under  wet 
'  hedges,  and  get  cured  soon  and  finally.'    Towards  the  close  of 

The  well.  the  same  month  (24th  of  September)  he  wrote  :  '  Here  are  six 
'■  men  perpetually  going  up  and  down  the  well  (I  know  that  some- 
'  body  will  be  killed),  in  the  course  of  fitting  a  pump ;  which  is 
'  quite  a  railway  terminus — it  is  so  iron,  and  so  big.*  The  process 

*  A  passage  in  his  paper  on  Tramps  '  body  of  workmen  for  a  certain  spell 

embodies  very  amusingly  experiences  '  of  work  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the 

recorded  in  his  letters  of  the  sinking  of  '  country  ;  and  I  was  at  one  time 

this  well  and  the  construction  of  a  *  honoured  M'ith  the  attendance  of  as 

brick-work  tunnel;   but  I  can  only  *  many  as  seven-and -twenty,  who  were 

borrow  one  sentence.    'The  current  'looking  at  six.'    Bits  of  wonderful, 

'  of  my  uncommercial  pursuits  caused  observation  are  in  that  paper, 
'  me  only  last  sun^nier  to  want  a  little 


§  in.] 


Gadshill  Place, 


'  is  much  more  like  putting  Oxford-street  endwise,  and  la)dng  gas  Gadshill 
'  along  it,  than  anything  else.    By  the  time  it  is  finished,  the  cost  1856-70. 

*  of  this  water  will  be  something  absolutely  frightful.     But  of 

*  course  it  proportionately  increases  the  value  of  the  property, 
'  and  that's  my  only  comfort.  .  .  The  horse  has  gone  lame  from 

*  a  sprain,  the  big  dog  has  run  a  tenpenny  nail  into  one  of  his 

*  hind  feet,  the  bolts  have  all  flown  out  of  the  basket-carriage,  and  Country 

mishaps 

*  the  gardener  says  all  the  fruit  trees  want  replacing  with  new  and  con- 

.  solations. 

'  ones.'    Another  note  came  in  three  days.    *  I  have  discovered 

*  that  the  seven  miles  between  Maidstone  and  Rochester  is  one 

*  of  the  most  beautiful  walks  in  England.    Five  men  have  been 

*  looking  attentively  at  the  pump  for  a  week,  and  (I  should  hope) 

*  may  begin  to  fit  it  in  the  course  of  October.'  .  . 

With  even  such  varying  fortune*  he  effected  other  changes.  Exterior 

and  Porch 

The  exterior  remamed  to  the  last  much  as  it  was  when  he  used 
as  a  boy  to  see  it  first ;  a  plain,  old-fashioned,  two-story,  brick- 
built  country  house,  with  a  bell-turret  on  the  roof,  and  over  the 
front  door  a  quaint  neat  wooden  porch  with  pillars  and  seats. 
But,  among  his  additions  and  alterations,  was  a  new  drawing- 
room  built  out  from  the  smaller  existing  one,  both  being  thrown 
together  ultimately ;  two  good  bedrooms  built  on  a  third  floor  at 
the  back;  and  such  re-arrangement  of  the  ground  floor  as,  besides 
its  handsome  drawing-room,  and  its  dining-room  which  he  hung 
with  pictures,  transformed  its  bedroom  into  a  study  which  he 
lined  with  books  and  sometimes  wrote  in,  and  changed  its  break- 
fast-parlour into  a  retreat  fitted  up  for  smokers  into  which  he  put 
a  small  biUiard-table.  These  several  rooms  opened  from  a  hall 
having  in  it  a  series  of  Hogarth  prints,  until,  after  the  artist's 
death,  Stanfield's  noble  scenes  were  placed  there,  when  the 
Hogarths  were  moved  to  his  bedroom ;  and  in  this  hall,  during  Gradual 

,  .     ,  ,  .  .  ,   ,  ,    ,  additions 

his  last  absence  in  America,  a  parquet  floor  was  laid  down.  Nor  and 

changes 

did  he  omit  such  changes  as  might  increase  the  comfort  of  his 

•  'As  to  the  carpenters,'  he  wrote  *  fixed  on  Maidstone  and  nibbing  his 

to  his  daughter  in  September  i860,  *  hands  to  conciliate  his  moody  em- 

'  they  are  absolutely  maddening.  They  *  ployer)  that  "he  didn't  think  there 

'  are  always  at  work  yet  never  seem  *  "  would  be  very  much  left  to  do  after 

*  to  do  anything.    L.  was  down  on  *  *'  Saturday  the  291  h. "  I  didn't  throw 
'Friday,    and   said   (with   his   eye  *  him  out  of  window. ' 


262 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VIII. 


Gadshill 
Place : 
1856-70. 


Connection 
of  shrub- 
bery and 
lawn. 


servants.  He  built  entirely  new  offices  and  stables,  and  replaced 
a  very  old  coach-house  by  a  capital  servants'  hall,  transforming 
the  loft  above  into  a  commodious  school-room  or  study  for  his 
boys.  He  made  at  the  same  time  an  excellent  croquet-ground 
out  of  a  waste  piece  of  orchard. 

Belonging  to  the  house,  but  unfortunately  placed  on  the  other 
side  of  the  high  road,  was  a  shrubbery,  well  wooded  though  in 
desolate  condition,  in  which  stood  two  magnificent  cedars ;  and 
having  obtained,  in  1859,  the  consent  of  the  local  authorities  for 
the  necessary  underground  work,  Dickens  constructed  a  passage 
beneath  the  road  from  his  front  lawn  \  and  in  the  shrubbery  thus 
rendered  accessible,  and  which  he  then  laid  out  very  prettily,  he 
placed  afterwards  a  Swiss  chalet  presented  to  him  by  Mr.  Fechter, 
which  arrived  from  Paris  in  ninety-four  pieces  fitting  like  the 
joints  ol  a  puzzle,  but  which  proved  to  be  somewhat  costly  in 
setting  on  its  legs  by  means  of  a  foundation  of  brickwork.  '  It 
'  will  really  be  a  very  pretty  thing,'  he  wrote  (January  1865),  *and 
'  in  the  summer  (supposing  it  not  to  be  blown  away  in  the  spring), 
'  the  upper  room  will  make  a  charming  study.  It  is  much  higher- 
'  than  we  supposed.'  Once  up,  it  did  really  become  a  grea 
resource  in  the  summer  months,  and  much  of  Dickens's  work  was 
done  there.  *  I  have  put  five  mirrors  in  the  chalet  where  I  write,'  * 


Dickens's 
writing- 
table. 


*  As  surely,  however,  as  he  did  any 
work  there,  so  surely  his  indispensable 
little  accompaniments  of  work  {ante, 
i.  457)  were  carried  along  with  him  ; 
and  of  these  I  will  quote  what  was 
written  shortly  after  his  death  by  his 
son-in-law,  Mr.  Charles  Collins,  to 
illustrate  a  very  touching  sketch  by 
Mr,  Fildes  of  his  writing-desk  and 
vacant  chair.  '  Ranged  in  front  of, 
'  and  round  about  him,  were  always  a 
'  variety  of  objects  for  his  eye  to  rest 

*  on  in  the  intervals  of  actual  writing, 
'  and  any  one  of  which  he  would  have 
'  instantly  missed  had  it  been  removed. 

*  There  was  a  French  bronze  group 

*  representing  a  duel  with  swords, 

*  fought  by  a  couple  of  very  fat  toads, 

*  one  of  them  (characterised  by  that 


particular  buoyancy  which  belongs  to 
corpulence;  in  the  act  of  making  a 
prodigious  lunge  forward,  which  the 
other  receives  in  the  very  middle  of 
his  digestive  apparatus,  and  under 
the  influence  of  which  it  seems  likely 
that  he  will  satisfy  the  wounded 
honour  of  his  opponent  by  promptly 
expiring.  There  was  another  bronze 
figure  which  always  stood  near  the 
toads,  also  of  French  manufacture, 
and  also  full  of  comic  suggestion.  It 
was  a  statuette  of  a  dog-fancier,  such 
■  a  one  as  you  used  to  see  on  the 
bridges  or  quays  of  Paris,  with  a 
profusion  of  little  dogs  stuck  under 
his  arms  and  into  his  pockets,  and 
everywhere  where  little  dogs  could 
possibly  be  insinuated,  all  for  sale, 


§  III.]  Gadshill  Place.  263 

he  told  an  American  friend,  '  and  they  reflect  and  refract,  in  all  Gadshill 

.       .  .  Place: 

*  kinds  of  ways,  the  leaves  that  are  quivering  at  the  windows,  and  1856-70. 


The  Chaiet. 


*  the  great  fields   of  waving  corn,  and  the  sail-dotted  river^ 

*  My  room  is  up  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  ;  and  the  birds 
'  and  the  butterflies  fly  in  and  out,  and  the  green  branches  shoot 


*  and  all,  as  even  a  casual  glance  at 
'  the  vendor's  exterior  would  convince 
'  the  most  unsuspicious  person,  with 

*  some  screw  loose  in  their  physical 

*  constitutions  or  moral  natures,  to  be 

*  discovered  immediately  after  pur- 

*  chase.    There  was  the  long  gilt  leaf 

*  with  the  rabbit  sitting  erect  upon  its 

*  haunches,  the  huge  paper-knife  often 

*  held  in  his  hand  during  his  public 

*  readings,  and  the  little  fresh  green 

*  cup  ornamented  with  the  leaves  and 

*  blossoms  of  the  cowslip,  in  which  a 

*  few  fresh  flowcrb  were  always  placed 


'  every  morning — for  Dickens  invari- 

*  ably  worked  with  flowers  on  his 
'  writing-table.  There  was  also  the 
'  register  of  the  day  of  the  week  and 
'  of  the  month,  which  stood  always 
'  before  him  ;  and  when  the  room  in 

*  the  chalet  in  which  he  wrote  his  last 
'  paragraph  was  opened,  some  time 
'  after  his  death,  the  first  thing  to  be 
'  notked  by  those  who  entered  was 

*  this  register,  set  at  '*  Wednesday, 
'  "June  8" — the  day  of  his  seizure.' 
It  remains  to  this  day  as  it  was  found. 


264 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI  1L 


Gadshill  '  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the 
^856-70-    '  clouds  come  and  go  with  the  rest  of  the  company.    The  scent 
chalet       '  flowers,  and  indeed  of  everything  that  is  growing  for 

*  miles  and  miles,  is  most  delicious.'  He  used  to  make  great 
boast,  too,  not  only  of  his  crowds  of  singing  birds  all  day,  but  of 
his  nightingales  at  night. 

One  or  two  more  extracts  from  letters  having  reference  to  these 
changes  may  show  something  of  the  interest  to  him  with  which 
Gadshill  thus  grew  under  his  hands.  A  sun-dial  on  his  back-lawn 
had  a  bit  of  historic  interest  about  it.    *  One  of  the  balustrades  of 

*  the  destroyed  old  Rochester  Bridge,'  he  wrote  to  his  daughter 
in  June  1859,  'has  been  (very  nicely)  presented  to  me  by  the 

*  contractors  for  the  works,  and  has  been  duly  stone-masoned 
'  and  set  up  on  the  lawn  behind  the  house.  I  have  ordered  a 
'  sun-dial  for  the  top  of  it,  and  it  will  be  a  very  good  object 
'  indeed.'  '  When  you  come  down  here  next  month,'  he  wrote 
to  me,  '  we  have  an  idea  that  we  shall  show  you  rather  a  neat 

*  house.  What  terrific  adventures  have  been  in  action ;  how 
'  many  overladen  vans  were  knocked  up  at  Gravesend,  and  had 
'  to  be  dragged  out  of  Chalk-turnpike  in  the  dead  of  the  night  by 
'  the  whole  equine  power  of  this  establishment ;  shall  be  revealed 
'  at  another  time.'  That  was  in  the  autumn  of  i860,  when,  on 
the  sale  of  his  London  house,  its  contents  were  transferred  to 

Making      his  couutrv  homc.    '  I  shall  have  an  alteration  or  two  to  show 

Gadshill 

his  home.  '  you  at  Gadshill  that  greatly  improve  the  little  property ;  and 
'when  I  get  the  workmen  out  this  time,  I  think  I'll  leave  off.' 
October  1861  had  now  come,  when  the  new  bedrooms  were 
built ;  but  in  the  same  month  of  1863  he  announced  his  trans- 
formation of  the  old  coach-house.  *  I  shall  have  a  small  new 
'  improvement  to  show  you  at  Gads,  which  I  think  you  will 

*  accept  as  the  crowning  ingenuity  of  the  inimitable.'  But  of 
course  it  was  not  over  yet.  '  My  small  work  and  planting,'  he 
wrote  in  the  spring  of  1866,  *  really,  truly,  and  positively  the  last, 
'  are  nearly  at  an  end  in  these  regions,  and  the  result  will  await 

Much        '  summer  inspection.'    No,  nor  even  yet.    He  afterwards  ob- 

coveted  ac- 
quisition,    tained,  by  exchange  of  some  land  with  the  trustees  of  Watts's 

Charity,  the  much  coveted  meadow  at  the  back  of  the  house  of 


§  III.] 


Gadshill  Place. 


265 


which  heretofore  he  had  the  lease  only ;  and  he  was  then  able  to 
plant  a  number  of  young  hmes  and  chesnuts  and  other  quick-  ^^56-70. 
growing  trees.  He  had  already  planted  a  row  of  limes  in  front.  ^^^^^ 
He  had  no  idea,  he  would  say,  of  planting  only  for  the  benefit  of 
posterity,  but  would  put  into  the  ground  what  he  might  himself 
enjoy  the  sight  and  shade  of.  He  put  them  in  two  or  three 
clumps  in  the  meadow,  and  in  a  belt  all  round. 

Still  there  were  '  more  last  words,'  for  the  limit  was  only  to  be 
set  by  his  last  year  of  life.  On  abandoning  his  notion,  after  the 
American  readings,  of  exchanging  Gadshill  for  London,  a  new 
staircase  was  put  up  from  the  hall :  a  parquet  floor  laid  on  the  Last  great 

...  .  improva- 

first  landing ;  and  a  conservatory  built,  opening  into  both  drawing-  nwnt. 
room  and  dining-room,  *  glass  and  iron,'  as  he  described  it, 

*  brilliant  but  expensive,  with  foundations  as  of  an  ancient 
'  Roman  work  of  horrible  solidity.'  This  last  addition  had  long 
been  an  object  of  desire  with  him ;  though  he  would  hardly  even 
now  have  given  himself  the  indulgence  but  for  the  golden  shower 
from  America.  He  saw  it  first  in  a  completed  state  on  the 
Sunday  before  his  death,  when  his  younger  daughter  was  on  a 
visit  to  him.    *Well,  Katey,'  he  said  to  her,  'now  you  see 

*  POSITIVELY  the  last  improvement  at  Gadshill ; '  and  every  one 
laughed  at  the  joke  against  himself.    The  success  of  the  new  New  con- 
conservatory  was  unquestionable.    It  was  the  remark  of  all 
around  him  that  he  was  certainly,  from  this  last  of  his  improve- 
ments, drawing  more  enjoyment  than  from  any  of  its  predecessors, 

when  the  scene  for  ever  closed. 

Of  the  course  of  his  daily  life  in  the  country  there  is  not  much 
to  be  said.  Perhaps  there  was  never  a  man  who  changed  places 
so  much  and  habits  so  little.  He  was  always  methodical  and  course  of 
regular ;  and  passed  his  Hfe  from  day  to  day,  divided  for  the  '^^'^^ 
most  part  between  working  and  walking,  the  same  wherever  he 
was.  The  only  exception  was  when  special  or  infrequent  visitors 
were  with  him.  When  such  friends  as  Longfellow  and  his 
daughters,  or  Charles  Eliot  Norton  and  his  wife,  came,  or  when 
Mr.  Fields  brought  his  wife  and  Professor  Lowell's  daughter,  or 
when  he  received  other  Americans  to  whom  he  owed  special 
courtesy,  he  would  compress  into  infinitely  few  days  an  enormous 


266 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI i I. 


Gadsmpx  amount  of  sight  seeing  and  country  enjoyment,  castles,  cathe- 
1856-70. 


drals,  and  fortified  lines,  lunches  and  picnics  among  cherry 
orchards  and  hop-gardens,  excursions  to  Canterbury  or  Maid- 
stone and  their  beautiful  neighbourhoods,  Druid-stone  and  Blue 
Bell  Hill.  'All  the  neighbouring  country  that  could  be  shown 
*  in  so  short  a  time/  he  wrote  of  the  Longfellow  visit,  '  they  saw. 


m 
m 


House  and 
conserva- 
tory :  from 
the  mea- 
dow. 


*  I  turned  out  a  couple  ot  postilions  in  the  Old  red  jackets  ot  the 
Visits  of      *  old  red  royal  Dover  road  for  our  ride,  and  it  was  like  a  holiday 

friends.  ^  ^ 

*  ride  in  England  fifty  years  ago.'  For  Lord  Lytton  he  did  the 
same,  for  the  Emerson  Tennents,  for  Mr.  Layard  and  Mr.  Helps, 
for  Lady  Molesworth  and  the  Higginses  (Jacob  Omnium),  and 
such  other  less  frequent  visitors. 

Excepting  on  such  particular  occasions  however,  and  not 
always  even  then,  his  mornings  were  reserved  wholly  to  himself ; 
Morning  and  he  would  generally  preface  his  morning  work  (such  was  his 
love  of  order  in  everything  around  him)  by  seeing  that  all  was  in 
its  place  in  the  several  rooms,  visiting  also  the  dogs,  stables,  and 
kitchen  garden,  and  closing,  unless  the  weather  was  very  bad 
indeed,  with  a  turn  or  two  round  the  meadow  before  settling  to 
his  desk.    His  dogs  were  a  great  enjoyment  to  him     and,  with 

*  Dickens's  interest  in  dogs  (as  in     was  inexhaustible,  and  he  welcomed 
the  habits  and  ways  of  all  animals)     with  delight  any  new  trait.    The  su^- 


Gadshill  Place. 


267 


his  high  road  traversed  as  frequently  as  any  in  England  by  tramps  Gadshill 
and  wayfarers  of  a  singularly  undesirable  description,  they  were  1856-70- 
also  a  necessity.    There  were  always  two,  of  the  mastiff  kind,  ^^«j^'^°ss : 
but  latterly  the  number  increased.    His  own  favourite  was  Turk,  Linda, 
a  noble  animal,  full  of  affection  and  intelligence,  whose  death  by 
a  railway-accident,   shortly  after   the  Staplehurst  catastrophe, 
caused  him  great  grief.    Turk's  sole  companion  up  to  that  date 
was  Linda,  puppy  of  a  great  St.  Bernard  brought  over  by  Mr. 
Albert  Smith,  and  grown  into  a  superbly  beautiful  creature.  After 
Turk  there  was  an  interval  of  an  Irish  dog.  Sultan,  given  by        •  * 
Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald;  a  cross  between  a  St.  Bernard  and  a 
bloodhound,  built  and  coloured  like  a  lioness  and  of  splendid 
proportions,  but  of  such  indomitably  aggressive  propensities,  that, 
after  breaking  his  kennel-chain  and  nearly  devouring  a  luckless 
little  sister  of  one  of  the  servants,  he  had  to  be  killed.  Dickens 
always  protested  that  Sultan  was  a  Fenian,  for  that  no  dog,  not  a 
secretly  sworn  member  of  that  body,  would  ever  have  made  such 
a  point,  muzzled  as  he  was,  of  rushing  at  and  bearing  down  with 
fury  anything  in  scarlet  with  the  remotest  resemblance  to  a 
British  uniform.    Sultan's  successor  was  Don,  presented  by  Mr. 
Frederic  Lehmann,  a  grand  Newfoundland  brought  over  very 

joined,  told  him  by  a  lady  friend,  was  *  followed,    the  beer-shop-keeper  is 

a  great  acquisition.    *I  must  close'  'seen  to  take  down  a  pot  (pewter  A  dog  with 

(14th  of  May  1867)  *  with  an  odd  story  *  pot)  and  is  heard  to  say:  *'  Well,  ^ 

'of  a  Newfoundland  dog.    An  im-  *  '*  old  chap  !    Come  for  your  beer  as 

*  mense  black  good-humoured  New-  *  "usual,  have  you?"    Upon  which 

*  foundland  dog.    He  came  from  Ox-  *  he  draws  a  pint  and  puts  it  down,  and 

*  ford,  and  had  lived  all  his  life  at  a  *  the  dog  drinks  it.  Being  required 
'brewery.     Instructions  were  given  '  to  explain  how  this  comes  to  pass,  the 

*  with  him  that  if  he  were  let  out  every  '  man  says,  "  Yes  ma'am,  I  know  he's 
•morning  alone,  he  would  immedi-  '"  your  dog  ma'am,  but  I  didn't  when 
'  ately  find  out  the  river;  regularly  *"  he  first  come.  He  looked  in  ma'am 
'  take  a  swim  ;  and  gravely  come  home  '  "  — as  a  Brickmaker  might  —  and 
'  again.  This  he  did  with  the  greatest  '  "  then  become  in — as  a  Brickmaker 

*  punctuality,  but  after  a  little  while  *  "  might— and  he  wagged  his  tail  at 

*  was  observed  to  smell  of  beer.    She  *  "  the  pots,  and  he  giv'  a  sniff  round, 

*  was  so  sure  that  he  smelt  of  beer  *  '  *  and  conveyed  to  me  as  he  was  used 

*  thai  she  resolved  to  watch  h<m.  Ac-  '  "  to  beer.  So  I  draw'd  him  a  drop, 
'  cordingly,  he  was  seen  to  come  back  '  "  and  he  drunk  it  up.    Next  morn- 

*  from  his  swim,  round  the  usual  *"  ing  he  come  agen  by  the  clock  and 

*  comer,  and  to  go  up  a  flight  of  steps  '  "  I  drawed  him  a  pint,  and  ever 

*  into  a  beer-shop.    Being  instantly  '  "  since  he  has  took  his  pint  reglar." 


268 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Bouk  VI 1 1. 


Linda  and 
Don. 


Don  and 
Bumble. 


Gadshill  young,  who  with  Linda  became  parent  to  a  couple  of  Newfound- 

Place: 

1856-70-  lands,  that  were  still  gambolling  about  their  master,  huge,  though 
hardly  out  of  puppydom,  when  they  lost  him.  He  had  given  to 
one  of  them  the  name  of  Bumble,  from  having  observed,  as  he 
described  it,  *  a  peculiarly  pompous  and  overbearing  manner  he 

*  had  of  appearing  to  mount  guard  over  the  yard  when  he  was  an 

*  absolute  infant'  Bumble  was  often  in  scrapes.  Describing  to 
Mr.  Fields  a  drought  in  the  summer  of  1868,  when  their  poor 
supply  of  ponds  and  surface  wells  had  become  waterless,  he 
wrote  :  *  I  do  not  let  the  great  dogs  swim  in  the  canal,  because 

*  the  people  have  to  drink  of  it.  But  when  they  get  into  the 
'  Medway,  it  is  hard  to  get  them  out  again.    The  other  day 

*  Bumble  (the  son,  Newfoundland  dog)  got  into  difficulties  among 

*  some  floating  timber,  and  became  frightened.    Don  (the  father) 

*  v/as  standing  by  me,  shaking  off  the  wet  and  looking  on  care- 
'  lessly,  when  all  of  a  sudden  he  perceived  something  amiss,  and 
'  went  in  with  a  bound  and  brought  Bumble  out  by  the  ear.  The 

*  scientific  way  in  which  he  towed  him  along  was  charming.'  The 
description  of  his  own  reception,  on  his  reappearance  after 
America,  by  Bumble  and  his  brother,  by  the  big  and  beautiful 
Linda,  and  by  his  daughter  Mary's  handsome  little  Pomeranian, 
may  be  added  from  his  letters  to  the  same  correspondent.    *  The 

*  two  Newfoundland  dogs  coming  to  meet  me,  with  the  usual 
'  carriage  and  the  usual  driver,  and  beholding  me  coming  in  my 

*  usual  dress  out  at  the  usual  door,  it  struck  me  that  their  recol- 

*  lection  of  my  having  been  absent  for  any  unusual  time  was  at 
'  once  cancelled.    They  behaved  (they  are  both  young  dogs) 

*  exactly  in  their  usual  manner ;  coming  behind  the  basket 

*  phaeton  as  we  trotted  along,  and  lifting  their  heads  to  have  their 

*  ears  pulled,  a  special  attention  which  they  receive  from  no  one 

*  else.    But  when  I  drove  into  the  stable-yard,  Linda  (the  St.  Ber- 

*  nard)  was  greatly  excited ;  weeping  profusely,  and  throwing 

*  herself  on  her  back  that  she  might  caress  my  foot  with  her  great 

*  fore-paws.    Mary's  little  dog  too,  Mrs.  Bouncer,  barked  in  the 

*  greatest  agitation  on  being  called  down  and  asked  by  Mary, 
'  Who  is  this  ?  "  and  tore  round  and  round  me  hke  the  dog  in 
'  the  Faust  outlines.'    The  father  and  mother  and  their  two  sons, 


Welcome 
from 
America. 


Mrs. 
Bouncer. 


§  in.] 


Gadshill  Place. 


269 


four  formidable-looking  companions,  were  with  him  generally  in  Gadshill 
his  later  walks.  ^856-70. 

Round  Cobham,  skirting  the  park  and  village,  and  passing  the 
Leather  Bottle  famous  in  the  page  of  Pickwick^  was  a  favourite 
walk  with  Dickens.  By  Rochester  and  the  Medway,  to  the 
Chatham  Lines,  was  another.  He  would  turn  out  of  Rochester 
High-street  through  The  Vines  (where  some  old  buildings,  from 
one  of  which  called  Restoration-house  he  took  Satis-house  for 
Great  Expectations,  had  a  curious  attraction  for  him),  would  pass 
round  by  Fort  Pitt,  and  coming  back  by  Frindsbury  would 
bring  himself  by  some  cross  fields  again  into  the  high  road. 
Or,  taking  the  other  side,  he  would  walk  through  the  marshes  to  Favourite 

roads. 

Gravesend,  return  by  Chalk  church,  and  stop  always  to  have 
greeting  with  a  comical  old  monk  who  for  some  incomprehensible 
reason  sits  carved  in  stone,  cross-legged  with  a  jovial  pot,  over 
the  porch  of  that  sacred  edifice.  To  another  drearier  church- 
yard, itself  forming  part  of  the  marshes  beyond  the  Medway, 
he  often  took  friends  to  show  them  the  dozen  small  tombstones 
of  various  sizes  adapted  to  the  respective  ages  of  a  dozen  small 
children  of  one  family  which  he  made  part  of  his  story  of  Great 
Expectations,  though,  with  the  reserves  always  necessary  in 
copying  nature  not  to  overstep  her  modesty  by  copying  too 
closely,  he  makes  the  number  that  appalled  little  Pip  not  more  Cooling 
than  half  the  reality.  About  the  whole  of  this  Cooling  church-  yard, 
yard,  indeed,  and  the  neighbouring  castle  ruins,  there  was  a 
weird  strangeness  that  made  it  one  of  his  attractive  walks  in  the 
late  year  or  winter,  when  from  Higham  he  could  get  to  it  across 
country  over  the  stubble  fields  ;  and,  for  a  shorter  summer  walk, 
he  was  not  less  fond  of  going  round  the  village  of  Shome,  and 
sitting  on  a  hot  afternoon  in  its  pretty  shaded  churchyard.  But 
on  the  whole,  though  Maidstone  had  also  much  that  attracted 
him   to  its   neighbourhood,  the  Cobham  neighbourhood  was  Dickens's 

...  1  •   1     1       1      1  1  •  1    ,  '^^l  wallc 

certamly  that  which  he  had  greatest  pleasure  m ;  and  he  would 
have  taken  oftener  than  he  did  the  walk  through  Cobham 
park  and  woods,  which  was  the  last  he  enjoyed  before  life  sud- 
denly closed  upon  him,  but  that  here  he  did  not  like  his  dogs  to 
fpllow. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  VI 1 1. 


Gadshill      Don  now  has  his  home  there  with  Lord  Darnley,  and  Linda 

Place :  _ 

1856-70.    lies  under  one  of  the  cedars  at  Gadshill. 


The  Study 
at  Gadshill. 


IV. 

FIRST  PAID  READINGS. 
^     ,  1858— 1859. 

^858^9^*      Dickens  gave  his  paid  public  Readings  successively,  with  not 
long  intervals,  at  four  several  dates  ;  in  1858-59,  in  1861-63,  in 
1866-67,  and  in  1868-70;  the  first  series  under  Mr.  Arthur 
Various      Smith's  management,  the  second  under  Mr.  Headland's,  and  the 
ments.        third  and  fourth,  in  America  as  well  as  before  and  after  it,  under 


First  Paid  Readings. 


271 


that  of  Mr.  George  Dolby,  who,  excepting  in  America,  acted  for  ^"^^g'ss^^* 
the  Messrs.  Chappell.    The  references  in  the  present  chapter  are  ~ 
to  the  first  series  only. 

It  began  with  sixteen  nights  at  St.  Martin's  Hall,  the  first  on 
the  29th  of  April,  the  last  on  the  22nd  of  July,  1858  ;  and  there 
was  afterwards  a  provincial  tour  of  87  readings,  beginning  at 
Clifton  on  the  2nd  of  August,  ending  at  Brighton  on  the  13th  of  ^'^J^ 
November,  and  taking  in  Ireland  and  Scotland  as  well  as  the 
principal  English  cities  :  to  which  were  added,  in  London,  three 
Christmas  readings,  three  in  January,  with  two  in  the  following 
month ;  and,  in  the  provinces  in  the  month  of  October,  fourteen, 
beginning  at  Ipswich  and  Norwich,  taking  in  Cambridge  and 
Oxford,  and  closing  with  Birmingham  and  Cheltenham.  The 
series  had  comprised  altogether  125  Readings  when  it  ended  on 
the  27th  of  October,  1859;  and  without  the  touches  of  character 
and  interest  afforded  by  his  letters  written  while  thus  employed, 
the  picture  of  the  man  would  not  be  complete. 

Here  was  one  day's  work  at  the  opening  which  will  show  some-  On«  day's 

.  work. 

thing  of  the  fatigue  they  involved  even  at  their  outset.  '  On 
'  Friday  we  came  from  Shrewsbury  to  Chester ;  saw  all  right  for 
'  the  evening ;  and  then  went  to  Liverpool.  Came  back  from 
'  Liverpool  and  read  at  Chester.    Left  Chester  at  11  at  night, 

*  after  the  reading,  and  went  to  London.    Got  to  Tavistock 

*  House  at  5  a.m.  on  Saturday,  left  it  at  a  quarter  past  10  that 

*  morning,  and  came  down  here '  (Gadshill :  1 5th  of  August 

1858). 

The  *  greatest  personal  affection  and  respect '  had  greeted  him 
everywhere.    Nothing  could  have  been  *  more  strongly  marked  or 

*  warmly  expressed  ;  *  and  the  readings  had  *  gone  '  quite  wonder- 
fully.   What  in  this  respect  had  most  impressed  him,  at  the  outset 

of  his  adventures,  was  Exeter.    '  I  think  they  were  the  finest  Exeter 
'  audience  I  ever  read  to ;  I  don't  think  I  ever  read  in  some 

*  respects  so  well ;  and  I  never  beheld  anything  like  the  personal 

*  affection  which  they  poured  out  upon  me  at  the  end.    I  shall 

*  always  look  back  upon  it  with  pleasure.'  He  often  lost  his  voice 
in  these  early  days,  having  still  to  acquire  the  art  of  husbanding 
it ;  and  in  the  trial  to  recover  it  would  attain  waste  its  power.    *  I 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI ii 

*  think  I  sang  half  the  Irish  melodies  to  myself  as  T  walked  about, 

*  to  test  it' 

An  audience  of  two  thousand  three  hundred  people  (the 
largest  he  had  had)  greeted  him  at  Liverpool  on  his  way  to 
Dublin,  and,  besides  the  tickets  sold,  more  than  two  hundred 
pounds  in  money  was  taken  at  the  doors.  This  taxed  his 
business  staff  a  little.    *  They  turned  away  hundreds,  sold  all  the 

*  books,  rolled  on  the  ground  of  my  room  knee-deep  in  checks, 

*  and  made  a  perfect  pantomime  of  the  whole  thing.'  (20th  of 
August.)    He  had  to  repeat  the  reading  thrice. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Ireland,  and  Dublin  greatly 
surprised  him  by  appearing  to  be  so  much  larger  and  more 
populous  than  he  had  supposed.  He  found  it  to  have  altogether 
an  unexpectedly  thriving  look,  being  pretty  nigh  as  big,  he  first 
thought,  as  Paris ;  of  which  some  places  in  it,  such  as  the  quays 
on  the  river,  reminded  him.  Half  the  first  day  he  was  there,  he 
took  to  explore  it ;  walking  till  tired,  and  then  hiring  a  car. 
'  Power,  dressed  for  the  character  of  Tedy  the  Tiler,  drove  me  : 
'  in  a  suit  of  patches,  and  with  his  hat  unbrushed  for  twenty 
'  years.  Wonderfully  pleasant,  light,  intelligent,  and  careless.' 
A  letter  to  his  eldest  daughter  makes  humorous  addition.  '  The 
'  man  who  drove  our  jaunting  car  yesterday  hadn't  a  piece  in  his 

*  coat  as  big  as  a  penny  roll  .  .  .  but  he  was  remarkably  intelligent 

*  and  agreeable,  with  something  to  say  about  everything.  When 

*  we  got  into  the  Phoenix  Park,  he  looked  round  him  as  if  it  were 
'  his  own,  and  said  "That's  a  Park  sir,  av  ye  plase  !  "  I  com- 
'  plimented  it,  and  he  said  "  Gintlemen  tills  me  as  they  iv  bin,  sir, 
'  "  over  Europe  and  never  see  a  Park  aqualling  ov  it.  Yander's  the 
'  "  Vice-regal  Lodge,  sir  j  in  thim  two  corners  lives  the  two 

*  "  Sicretaries,  wishing  I  was  thim  sir.    There's  air  here  sir,  av  yer 

*  "  plase  !    There's  scenery  here  sir !    There's  mountains  thim 

*  sir  ! "  '  The  number  of  common  people  he  saw  in  his  drive, 
also  '  riding  about  in  cars  as  hard  as  they  could  split,'  brought  to 
his  recollection  a  more  distant  scene,  and  but  for  the  dresses  he 
could  have  thought  himself  on  the  Toledo  at  Naples. 

In  respect  of  the  number  of  his  audience,  and  their  reception 
of  him,  Dublin  was  one  of  his  marked  successes.    He  came  to 


I^zrs^  Paid  Readings. 


273 


have  some  doubt  of  their  capacity  of  receiving  the  pathetic,  but  Ireland: 

1858. 

of  their  quickness  as  to  the  humorous  there  could  be  no  question,   

any  more  than  of  their  heartiness.  He  got  on  wonderfully  well 
with  the  Dublin  people  ;  and  the  Irish  girls  outdid  the  American 
{anieX  272)  in  one  particular.  He  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law:  'Every 
'  night  since  I  have  been  in  Ireland,  they  have  beguiled  my 

*  dresser  out  of  the  bouquet  from  my  coat ;  and  yesterday  morning, 

*  as  I  had  showered  the  leav^es  from  my  geranium  in  reading 

*  Little  Dombey,  they  mounted  the  platform  after  I  was  gone,  and 

*  picked  them  all  up  as  a  keepsake.'    The  Boots  at  Morrison's 
expressed  the  geperal  feeling  in  a  patriotic  point  of  view.    *  He  ^j^Qj^gon.^ 

*  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  hotel  door  last  night.    "  Whaat  sart  of 

*  "a  hoose  sur?"  he  asked  me.    "Capital."    "The  Lard  be 

*  "praised  fur  the  'onor  o'  Dooblin ! " '  Within  the  hotel,  on 
getting  up  next  morning,  he  had  a  dialogue  with  a  smaller  resident, 
landlord's  son  he  supposed,  a  little  boy  of  the  ripe  age  of  six, 
which  he  presented,  in  his  letter  to  his  sister-in-law,  as  a  colloquy 
between  Old  England  and  Young  Ireland  inadequately  reported 
for  want  of  the  '  imitation  '  it  required  for  its  full  effect.  *  I  am 
'  sitting  on  the  sofa,  writing,  and  find  him  sitting  beside  me. 

*  Old  England.  Holloa  old  chap. 

*  Young  Ireland.  Hal — loo  ! 

*  Old  England  (in  his  delightful  way).    What  a  nice  old  fellow 

*  you  are.    I  am  very  fond  of  little  boys. 

*  Young  Ireland.  Air  yes  ?    Ye'r  right. 

*  Old  England.  What  do  you  learn,  old  fellow  ? 

'  Young  Ireland  (very  intent  on  Old  England,  and  always  Young  Ire- 
land and 

'  childish  except  in  his  brogue).    I  lairn  wureds  of  three  sillibils  o'^  Eng- 

"     '  land. 

'  — and  wureds  of  two  sillibils — and  wureds  of  one  sillibil. 

*  Old  England  (cheerfully).    Get  out,  you  humbug  !    You  learn 

*  only  words  of  one  syllable. 

*  Young  Ireland  (laughs  heartily).    You  may  say  that  it  is 

*  mostly  wureds  of  one  sillibil. 

*  Old  England.  Can  you  write  ? 

*  Young  Irelafid.  Not  yet.    Things  comes  by  deegraya. 

*  Old  Efigland.  Can  you  cipher  ? 

*  Young  Ireland  (very  (quickly).    Whaat's  th^t } 

you  n.  T 


274 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


Ireland  •      *  Old  England.  Can  you  make  figures  ? 

— —     *  Young  Ireland.  I  can  make  a  nought,  which  is  not  asy,  being 

*  roond. 

'  Old  England.  I  say,  old  boy !  Wasn't  it  you  I  saw  on 
'  Sunday  morning  in  the  hall,  in  a  soldier's  cap  ?  You  know  ! — 
'  In  a  soldier's  cap  ? 

'  Young  Ireland  (cogitating  deeply).  Was  it  a  very  good 
'  cap  ? 

'  Old  England.  Yes. 

*  Young  Ireland.  Did  it  fit  ankommon  ? 

*  Old  England.  Yes. 

*  Young  Ireland.  Dat  was  me  ! ' 

Extra-  The  last  night  in  Dublin  was  an  extraordinary  scene.    *  You 

scenef"^      '  Can  hardly  imagine  it.    All  the  way  from  the  hotel  to  the 
'  Rotunda  (a  mile),  I  had  to  contend  against  the  stream  of  people 

*  who  were  turned  away.    When  I  got  there,  they  had  broken  the 

*  glass  in  the  pay-boxes,  and  were  offering       freely  for  a  stall. 

*  Half  of  my  platform  had  to  be  taken  down,  and  people  heaped 

*  in  among  the  ruins.    You  never  saw  such  a  scene.'    '  Ladies 

*  stood  all  night  with  their  chins  against  my  platform,'  he  wrote  to 
his  daughter.    '  Other  ladies  sat  all  night  upon  my  steps.  We 

*  turned  away  people  enough  to  make  immense  houses  for  a 
'  week.'  But  he  would  not  return  after  his  other  Irish  engage- 
ments. *  I  have  positively  said  No.  The  work  is  too  hard.  It 
'  is  not  like  doing  it  in  one  easy  room,  and  always  the  same  room. 

*  With  a  different  place  every  night,  and  a  different  audience  with 

*  its  own  peculiarity  every  night,  it  is  a  tremendous  strain  ...  I 

*  seem  to  be  always  either  in  a  railway  carriage  or  reading,  or 

*  going  to  bed  ;  and  I  get  so  knocked  up  whenever  I  have  a 

*  minute  to  remember  it,  that  then  I  go  to  bed  as  a  matter  of 
'  course.' 

Belfast  he  liked  quite  as  much  as  Dublin  in  another  way.    *  A 

*  fine  place  with  a  rough  people ;  everything  looking  prosperous ; 
A^raiiway    i       railway  ride  from  Dublin  quite  amazing  in  the  order,  neat- 

'  ness,  and  cleanness  of  all  you  see ;  every  cottage  looking  as  if  it 

*  had  been  whitewashed  the  day  before  ;  and  many  with  channing 

*  gardens,  prettily  kept  with  bright  flowers.'    The  success,  too, 


§IV.] 


First  Paid  Readings. 


was  quite  as  great.  *  Enormous  audiences.  We  turn  away  half  Ireland: 
'  the  town.    I  think  them  a  better  audience  on  the  whole  than  — 

*  Dublin  ;  and  the  personal  affection  is  something  overwhelming. 

*  I  wish  you  and  the  dear  girls '  (he  is  writing  to  his  sister-in-law) 
'  could  have  seen  the  people  look  at  me  in  the  street ;  or  heard 

'  them  ask  me,  as  I  hurried  to  the  hotel  after  the  reading  last  in  Belfast. 
'  night,  to  "  do  me  the  honor  to  shake  hands  Misther  Dickens 
'  "  and  God  bless  you  sir  ;  not  ounly  for  the  light  you've  been  to 
'  "  me  this  night,  but  for  the  light  you've  been  in  mee  house  sir 

*  "  (and  God  love  your  face  !)  this  many  a  year  ! "  '  He  had  never 
seen  men  'go  in  to  cry  so  undisguisedly,'  as  they  did  at  the 
Belfast  Dombey  reading ;  '  and  as  to  the  Boots  and  Mrs.  Gamp 
'  it  was  just  one  roar  with  me  and  them.    For  they  made  me 

*  laugh  so,  that  sometimes  I  could  not  compose  my  face  to  go  on.' 

His  greatest  trial  in  this  way  however  was  a  little  later  at  Harro-  Harro- 

GATB. 

gate — '  the  queerest  place,  with  the  strangest  people  in  it,  leading 

*  the  oddest  lives  of  dancing,  newspaper-reading,  and  tables 
'  d'hote ' — where  he  noticed,  at  the  same  reading,  embodiments 
respectively  of  the  tears  and  laughter  to  which  he  has  moved  his 
fellow  creatures  so  largely.    '  There  was  one  gentleman  at  the 

*  Little  Dombey  yesterday  morning '  (he  is  still  writing  to  his 
sister-in-law)   *who  exhibited — or  rather   concealed — the  pro- 

*  foundest  grief  After  crying  a  good  deal  without  hiding  it,  he 
*■  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  and  laid  it  down  on  the 
'  back  of  the  seat  before  him,  and  really  shook  with  emotion.  He 

*  was  not  in  mourning,  but  I  supposed  him  to  have  lost  some  child 

*  in  old  time.  .  .  There  was  a  remarkably  good  fellow  too,  of  Dombey 

,  ,  .  .  .  reading. 

'  thirty  or  so,  who  found  somethmg  so  very  ludicrous  in  Toots 

*  that  he  could  not  compose  himself  at  all,  but  laughed  until  he  sat 
'  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief;  and  whenever  he  felt 

*  Toots  coming  again,  he  began  to  laugh  and  wipe  his  eyes  afresh ; 
'  and  when  Toots  came  once  more,  he  gave  a  kind  of  cry,  as  if  it 
'  were  too  much  for  him.    It  was  uncommonly  droll,  and  made 

*  me  laugh  heartily.' 

At  Harrogate  he  read  twice  on  one  day  (a  Saturday),  and  had  voRr 
to  engage  a  special  engine  to  take  him  back  that  night  to  York, 
which,  having  reached  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  had  to 

T  Z 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


leave,  because  of  Sunday  restrictions  on  travel,  the  same  morning 
at  half-past  four,  to  enable  him  to  fulfil  a  Monday's  reading  at 
Scarborough.  Such  fatigues  became  matters  of  course ;  but  their 
effect,  not  noted  at  the  time,  was  grave.  Here  again  he  was 
greatly  touched  by  the  personal  greeting.    '  I  was  brought  very 

*  near  to  what  I  sometimes  dream  may  be  my  Fame,'  he  wrote  to 
me  in  October  from  York,  *  when  a  lady  whose  face  I  had  never 
'  seen  stopped  me  yesterday  in  the  street,  and  said  to  me,  Mr. 
'  Dickens^  will  you  let  me  touch  the  hand  that  has  filled  my  house 

*  7vith  many  fi'iends.^    Of  the  reading  he  adds,  '  I  had  a  most 

*  magnificent  assemblage,  and  might  have  filled  the  place  for  a 

*  week.  ...  I  think  the  audience  possessed  of  a  better  know- 

*  ledge  of  character  than  any  I  have  seen.  ^  But  I  recollect 

*  Doctor  Belcombe  to  have  told  me  long  ago  that  they  first  found 

*  out  Charles  Mathews's  father,  and  to  the  last  understood  him 

*  (he  used  to  say)  better  than  any  other  people.  .  .  .  The  let  is 
'  enormous  for  next  Saturday  at  Manchester,  stalls  alone  four 

*  hundred  !    I  shall  soon  be  able  to  send  you  the  list  of  places 

*  to  the  15th  of  November,  the  end.    I  shall  be,  O  most  heartily 

*  glad,  when  that  time  comes  !    But  I  must  say  that  the  intelli- 

*  gence  and  warmth  of  the  audiences  are  an  immense  sustainment, 

*  and  one  that  always  sets  me  up.    Sometimes  before  I  go  down 

*  to  read  (especially  when  it  is  in  the  day),  I  am  so  oppressed  by 

*  having  to  do  it  that  I  feel  perfectly  unequal  to  the  task.  But 

*  the  people  lift  me  out  of  this  directly ;  and  I  find  that  I  have 
'  quite  forgotten  everything  but  them  and  the  book,  in  a  quarter 

*  of  an  hour.' 

The  reception  that  awaited  him  at  Manchester  had  very  special 
warmth  in  it,  occasioned  by  an  adverse  tone  taken  in  the  com- 
ment of  one  of  the  Manchester  daily  papers  on  the  letter  which 
by  a  breach  of  confidence  had  been  then  recently  printed.    *  My 

*  violated  letter'  Dickens  always  called  it  {ante^  255).    *When  I 

*  came  to  Manchester  on  Saturday  I  found  seven  hundred  stalls 

*  taken  !    When  I  went  into  the  room  at  night  2500  people  had 

*  paid,  and  more  were  being  turned  away  from  every  door.  The 

*  welcome  they  gave  me  was  astounding  in  its  affectionate  recog- 

*  nition  of  the  late  trouble,  and  fairly  for  once  unmanned  me. 


§  IV.] 


First  Paid  Readings, 


277 


*  I  never  saw  such  a  sight  or  heard  such  a  sound.    When  they  man- 

°  CHESTER : 

*  had  thoroughly  done  it,  they  settled  down  to  enjoy  themselves ;  1858. 
'  and  certainly  did  enjoy  themselves  most  heartily  to  the  last 

*  minute.'  Nor,  for  the  rest  of  his  English  tour,  in  any  of  the 
towns  that  remained,  had  he  reason  to  complain  of  any  want 
of  hearty  greeting.  At  Sheffield  great  crowds  in  excess  of  the 
places  came.  At  Leeds  the  hall  overflowed  in  half  an  hour.  At 
Hull  the  vast  concourse  had  to  be  addressed  by  Mr.  Smith  on 
the  gallery  stairs,  and  additional  Readings  had  to  be  given,  day 
and  night,  *for  the  people  out  of  town  and  for  the  people  in 

*  town.' 

The  net  profit  to  himself,  thus  far,  had  been  upwards  of  three  Scotlano. 
hundred  pounds  a  week ;  but  this  was  nothing  to  the  success  in 
Scotland,  where  his  profit  in  a  week,  with  all  expenses  paid,  was 
five  hundred  pounds.    The  pleasure  was  enhanced,  too,  by  the  Jpj'JfjJ^^J 
presence  of  his  two  daughters,  who  had  joined  him  over  the  ^"^^^ 
Border.    At  first  the  look  of  Edinburgh  was  not  promising.  'We 

*  began  with,  for  us,  a  poor  room.  .  .  .  But  the  effect  of  that 

*  reading  (it  was  the  Chimes)  was  immense ;  and  on  the  next 

*  night,  for  Little  Dombey,  we  had  a  full  room.    It  is  our  greatest 

*  triumph  everywhere.    Next  night  (Poor  Traveller ^  Boots,  and 

*  Gamp)  we  turned  away  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  people ; 

*  and  last  night,  for  the  Carol,  in  spite  of  advertisements  in  the 

*  morning  that  the  tickets  were  gone,  the  people  had  to  be  got  in  Scene  at 

.  Edinburgh, 

*  through  such  a  crowd  as  rendered  it  a  work  of  the  utmost  diffi- 
'  culty  to  keep  an  alley  into  the  room.    They  were  seated  about 

*  me  on  the  platform,  put  into  the  doorway  of  the  waiting-room, 

*  squeezed  into  every  conceivable  place,  and  a  multitude  turned 
'  away  once  more.    I  think  I  am  better  pleased  with  what  was 

*  done  in  Edinburgh  than  with  what  has  been  done  anywhere, 

*  almost.    It  was  so  completely  taken  by  storm,  and  carried  in 

*  spite  of  itself    Mary  and  Katey  have  been  infinitely  pleased 

*  and  interested  with  Edinburgh.    We  are  just  going  to  sit  down 

*  to  dinner  and  therefore  I  cut  my  missive  short.  Travelling, 

*  dinner,  reading,  and  everything  else,  come  crowding  together 

*  into  this  strange  life.* 

Then  came  Dundee  :  '  An  odd  place,'  he  wrote,  '  Uke  Wapping  At  Dundee 


278 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Book  vill. 


Scotland:  '  with  high  ruggcd  hills  behind  it.    We  had  the  strangest  journey 

 '  here — bits  of  sea,  and  bits  of  railroad,  alternately ;  which  carried 

'  my  mind  back  to  travelling  in  America.     The  room  is  an 

*  immense  new  one,  belonging  to  Lord  Kinnaird,  and  Lord 
'  Panmure,  and  some  others  of  that  sort.    It  looks  something 

*  between   the  Crystal-palace   and   Westminster-hall   (I  can't 

*  imagine  who  wants  it  in  this  place),  and  has  never  been  tried 

*  yet  for  speaking  in.    Quite  disinterestedly  of  coarse,  I  hope  it 

*  will  succeed.'  The  people  he  thought,  in  respect  of  taste  and 
intelligence,  below  any  other  of  his  Scotch  audiences  ;  but  they 
woke  up  surprisingly,  and  the  rest  of  his  Caledonian  tour  was  a 

A.t  Aber-     succession  of  triumphs.    *  At  Aberdeen  we  were  crammed  to  the 

deen  and 

Perth.        '  street,  twice  in  one  day.    At  Perth  (where  I  thought  when  I 
'  arrived,  there  literally  could  be  nobody  to  come)  the  gentlefolk 

*  came  posting  in  from  thirty  miles  round,  and  the  whole  town 

*  came  besides,  and  filled  an  immense  hall.    They  were  as  full 

*  of  perception,  fire,  and  enthusiasm  as  any  people  I  have  seen, 
eow^^^      *  At  Glasgow,  where  I  read  three  evenings  and  one  morning,  we 

*  took  the  prodigiously  large  sum  of  six  hundred  pounds  !  And 

*  this  at  the  Manchester  prices,  which  are  lower  than  St.  Martin's 

*  Hall.    As  to  the  effect — I  wish  you  could  have  seen  them  after 

*  Lilian  died  in  the  Chimes,  or  when  Scrooge  woke  in  the  Carol 

*  and  talked  to  the  boy  outside  the  window.  And  at  the  end 
'  of  Dombey  yesterday  afternoon,  in  the  cold  light  of  day,  they 

*  all  got  up,  after  a  short  pause,  gentle  and  simple,  and  thun- 

*  dered  and  waved  their  hats  with   such  astonishing  hearti- 

*  ness  and  fondness  that,  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  public 

*  career,  they  took  me  completely  off  my  legs,  and  I  saw  the 

*  whole  eighteen  hundred  of  them  reel  to  one  side  as  if  a 
'  shock  from  without   had  shaken  the  hall.  Notwithstanding 

*  which,  I  must  confess  to  you,  I  am  very  anxious  to  get  to  the 

*  end  of  my  Readings,  and  to  be  at  home  again,  and  able  to  sit 

*  down  and  think  in  my  own  study.     There  has  been  only 

*  one  thing  quite  without  alloy.     The  dear  girls  have  enjoyed 

*  themselves  immensely,  and  their  trip  with  me  has  been  a  great 

*  success.' 

The  subjects  of  his  readings  during  this  first  circuit  were  tht 


§IV.] 


First  Paid  Readings. 


279 


Carol,  the  Chimes,  the  Trial  in  Pickwick,  the  chapters  containing 

Paul  Dombey,  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn,  the  Poor  Traveller  

(Captain  Doubledick),  and  Mrs.  Gamp :  to  which  he  continued 
to  restrict  himself  through  the  supplementary  nights  that  closed 
in  the  autumn  of  1859.*  Of  these  the  most  successful  in  their 
uniform  effect  upon  his  audiences  were  undoubtedly  the  Carol, 
the  Pickwick  scene,  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  the  Dombey — the  quick- 
ness, variety,  and  completeness  of  his  assumption  of  character, 
having  greatest  scope  in  these.  Here,  I  think,  more  than  in 
the  pathos  or  graver  level  passages,  his  strength  lay ;  but  this 
is  entitled  to  no  weight  other  than  as  an  individual  opinion, 
and  his  audiences  gave  him  many  reasons  for  thinking  differently. 

The  incidents  of  the  period  covered  by  this  chapter  that  had 
any  general  interest  in  them,  claim  to  be  mentioned  briefly.  At 
the  close  of  1857  he  presided  at  the  fourth  anniversary  of  the 
Warehousemen  and  Clerks'  Schools,  describing  and  discrimi- 
nating, with  keenest  wit  and  kindHest  fun,  the  sort  of  schools  he 
liked  and  he  disliked.  To  the  spring  and  summer  of  1858  belongs  Fjrst 
the  first  collection  of  his  writings  into  a  succinct  library  form,  edition  of 

°  ^  '  his  books. 

each  of  the  larger  novels  occupying  two  volumes.  In  March  he 
paid  warm  public  tribute  to  Thackeray  (who  had  been  induced 
to  take  the  chair  at  the  General  Theatrical  Fund)  as  one  for 
whose  genius  he  entertained  the  warmest  admiration,  who  did 
honour  to  literature,  and  in  whom  literature  was  honoured.  In 
May  he  presided  at  the  Artists'  Benevolent  Fund  dinner,  and  At  public 

meetings. 

made  stnkmg  appeal  for  that  excellent  charity.  In  July  he  took 
earnest  part  in  the  opening  efforts  on  behalf  of  the  Royal 
Dramatic  College,  which  he  supplemented  later  by  a  speech  for 
the  establishment  of  schools  for  actors'  children ;  in  which  he 

*  The  last  of  them  were  given  imme-  '  demonstrativeness  of  the  great  work- 

diately  after  his  completion  of  the  Tale  *  ing-towns,  and  a  much  finer  percep- 

of  Two  Cities  :  *  I  am  a  little  tired  ;  '  tion.' — 14th  of  October  1859,    Tw  o 

'  but  as  little,  I  suspect,  as  any  man  pleasing  little  volumes  may  here  be 

'  could  be  with  the  work  of  the  last  named  as  devoted  to  special  descrip- 

'  four  days,  and  perhaps  the  change  of  tions  of  the  several  Readings  ;  by  his 

*  work  was  better  than  subsiding  into  friend  Mr,  Charles  Kent  in  England 

*  rest  and  rust.    The  Norwich  people  {Charles  Dickens  as  a  Reader),  and  by 

*  were  a  noble  audience.    There,  and  Miss   Kate  Field  in  America  {Fen 
ai  Ipswich  and  Bury,  we  had  the  J^hotographs). 


28o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVHI. 


London 
1S58-9. 


On  public 
schools. 


At  Coven- 
try. 


At  Man- 
chester. 


took  occasion  to  declare  his  belief  that  there  were  no  institutions 
in  England  so  socially  liberal  as  its  public  schools,  and  that 
there  was  nowhere  in  the  country  so  complete  an  absence  of 
servility  to  mere  rank,  position,  or  riches.  '  A  boy  there,  is 
'  always  what  his  abilities  or  his  personal  qualities  make  him. 

*  We  may  differ  about  the  curriculum  and  other  matters,  but  of 

*  the  frank,  free,  manly,  independent  spirit  preserved  in  our 
'  public  schools,  I  apprehend  there  can  be  no  kind  of  question.' 
In  December  *  he  was  entertained  at  a  public  dinner  in  Coventry 
on  the  occasion  of  receiving,  by  way  of  thanks  for  help  rendered 
to  their  Institute,  a  gold  repeater  of  special  construction  by  the 
watchmakers  of  the  town  ;  as  to  which  he  kept  faithfully  his 
pledge  to  the  givers,  that  it  should  be  thenceforward  the  insepar- 
able companion  of  his  workings  and  wanderings,  and  reckon  off 
the  future  labours  of  his  days  until  he  should  have  done  with  the 
measurement  of  time.  Within  a  day  from  this  celebration  he 
presided  at  the  Institutional  Association  of  Lancashire  and 
Cheshire  in  Manchester  Free  Trade  -Hall;  gave  prizes  to  can- 
didates from  a  hundred  and  fourteen  local  mechanics'  institutes 
affiliated  to  the  Association;  described  in  his  most  attractive 
language  the  gallant  toiling  fellows  by  whom  the  prizes  had 
been  won;  and  ended  with  the  monition  he  never  failed  to 
couple  with  his  eulogies  of  Knowledge,  that  it  should  follow 
the  teaching  of  the  Saviour,  and  not  satisfy  the  understanding 


*  Let  me  subjoin  his  own  note  of  a 
less  important  incident  of  that  month 
which  will  show  his  quick  and  sure  eye 
for  any  bit  of  acting  out  of  the  common. 
The  lady  has  since  justified  its  closing 
prediction.  *  I  really  wish  you  would 
'  go  to  see  the  Maid  and  the  Magpie 

*  burlesque    at  the  Strand  Theatre. 

*  There  is  the  strangest  thing  in  it  that 

*  ever  I  have  seen  on  the  stage  :  the 

*  boy,  Pippo,  by  Miss  Wilton.  While 

*  it  is  astonishingly  impudent  (must 

*  be,  or  it  couldn't  be  done  at  all),  it 

*  is  so  stuj^ndously  like  a  boy,  and 

*  unlike  a  woman,  that  it  is  perfectly  free 

*  from  offence.  .  .  She  does  an  imita- 


*  tion  of  the  dancing  of  the  Christy  Min- 

*  strels — wonderfully  clever — which, 

*  in  the  audacity  of  its  thorough- 
'  going,  is  surprising.    A  thing  that 

*  you  can  not  imagine  a  woman's  doing 

*  at  all ;  and  yet  the  manner,  the  ap- 

*  pearance,  the  levity,  impulse,  and 

*  spirits  of  it,  are  so  exactly  like  a  boy 

*  that  you  cannot  think  of  anything 

*  like  her  sex  in  association  with  it.  .  . 

*  I  never  have  seen  such  a  curious 

*  thing,  and  the  girl's  talent  is  un- 

*  challengeable.  I  call  her  the  cleverest 

*  girl  I  have  ever  seen  on  the  stage  in 

*  my  time,  and  the  most  singularly 

*  original.' 


VA  P  Fnl-h,  P.  A. 


All  the  Year  Round, 


281 


merely.    *  Knowledge  has  a  very  limited  power  when  it  informs 

*  the  head  only ;  but  when  it  informs  the  heart  as  well,  it  has  a 

*  power  over  life  and  death,  the  body  and  the  soul,  and  dominates 

*  the  universe.' 

This  too  was  the  year  when  Mr.  Frith  completed  Dickens's  Fritfi^s^por. 
portrait  for  me,  and  it  was  upon  the  walls  of  the  Academy  in  Dickens, 
the  following  spring.    *  I  wish,'  said  Edwin  Landseer  as  he  stood 
before  it,  *  he  looked  less  eager  and  busy,  and  not  so  much  out 

*  of  himself,  or  beyond  himself.     I  should  like  to  catch  him 

*  asleep  and  quiet  now  and  then.'  There  is  something  in  the  ob- 
jection, and  he  also  would  be  envious  at  times  of  what  he  too 
surely  knew  could  never  be  his  lot.  On  the  other  hand  who 
would  willingly  have  lost  the  fruits  of  an  activity  on  the  whole  so 
healthy  and  beneficent  ? 


V. 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND  AND  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 
1859— 1861. 

In  the  interval  before  the  close  of  the  first  circuit  of  readings,  London  : 
painful  personal  disputes  arising  out  of  the  occurrences  of  the 
previous  year  were  settled  by  the  discontinuance  of  Household 
Words^  and  the  establishment  in  its  place  of  All  the  Year  Round. 
The  disputes  turned  upon  matters  of  feeling  exclusively,  and 
involved  no  charge  on  either  side  that  would  render  any  detailed  J^JJ^^ 
reference  here  other  than  gravely  out  of  place.  The  question 
into  which  the  difference  ultimately  resolved  itself  was  that  of  the 
respective  rights  of  the  parties  as  proprietors  of  Household  Words  ; 
and  this,  upon  a  bill  filed  in  Chancery,  was  settled  by  a  winding- 
up  order,  under  which  the  property  was  sold.  It  was  bought  by 
Dickens,  who,  even  before  the  sale,  exactly  fulfilling  a  previous 
announcement  of  the  proposed  discontinuance  of  the  existing 
periodical  and  establishment  of  another  in  its  place,  precisely 


282 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI  ti. 


London  :  similar  but  under  a  different  title,  had  started  All  the  Year  Round. 
1859-61. 

 It  was  to  be  regretted  perhaps  that  he  should  have  thought  it 

Household 

Words  dis-   necessary  to  move  at  all,  but  he  moved  strictly  withm  his  rights. 

continued. 

To  the  publishers  first  associated  with  his  great  success  in 
literature,  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall,  he  now  returned  for  the 
issue  of  the  remainder  of  his  books ;  of  which  he  always  in  future 
reserved  the  copyrights,  making  each  the  subject  of  such  arrange- 
Eariiest      ment  as  for  the  time  might  seem  to  him  desirable.    In  this  he 

and  latest 

publishers,  -was  met  by  no  difficulty ;  and  indeed  it  will  be  only  proper  to 
add,  that,  in  any  points  affecting  his  relations  with  those  con- 
cerned in  the  production  of  his  books,  though  his  resentments 
were  easily  and  quickly  roused,  they  were  never  very  lasting. 
The  only  fair  rule  therefore  was,  in  a  memoir  of  his  life,  to  confine 
the  mention  of  such  things  to  what  was  strictly  necessary  to 
explain  its  narrative.  This  accordingly  has  been  done ;  and,  in 
the  several  disagreements  it  has  been  necessary  to  advert  to,  I 
cannot  charge  myself  with  having  in  a  single  instance  overstepped 

The  Bentiey  the  rule.    Objection  has  been  made  to  my  revival  of  the  early 

differences. 

differences  with  Mr.  Bentiey.  But  silence  respecting  them  was 
incompatible  with  what  absolutely  required  to  be  said,  if  the 
picture  of  Dickens  in  his  most  interesting  time,  at  the  outset  of 
his  career  in  letters,  was  not  to  be  omitted  altogether ;  and,  sup- 
pressing everything  of  mere  temper  that  gathered  round  the 
dispute,  use  was  made  of  those  letters  only  containing  the  young 
writer's  urgent  appeal  to  be  absolved,  rightly  or  wrongly,  from 
engagements  he  had  too  precipitately  entered  into.  Wrongly, 
some  might  say,  because  the  law  was  undoubtedly  on  Mr. 
Bentley's  side;  but  all  subsequent  reflection  has  confirmed  the 
view  I  was  led  strongly  to  take  at  the  time,  that  in  the  facts 
there  had  come  to  be  involved  what  the  law  could  not  afford  to 
overlook,  and  that  the  sale  of  brain-work  can  never  be  adjusted 
by  agreement  with  the  same  exactness  and  certainty  as  that  of 
ordinary  goods  and  chattels.  Quitting  the  subject  once  for  all 
with  this  remark,  it  is  not  less  incumbent  on  me  to  say  that  there 
was  no  stage  of  the  dispute  in  which  Mr.  Bentiey,  holding  as 
strongly  the  other  view,  might  not  think  it  to  have  sufficient 
justification;  and  certainly  in  later  years  there  was  no  absence 


§  v.]  AIL  the  Year  Round,  283 

of  friendly  feeling  on  the  part  of  Dickens  to  his  old  publisher,  ^^^^don  : 
This  already  has  been  mentioned ;  and  on  the  occasion  of  Hans 


Friendly 

Andersen's  recent  visit  to  Gadshill,  Mr.  Bentley  was  invited  to  I'eiations 

_     with  Mr. 

meet  the  celebrated  Dane.    Nor  should  I  omit  to  say,  that,  in  Bentiey 

'        resumed : 

the  year  to  which  this  narrative  has  now  arrived,  his  prompt  com- 
pliance  with  an  intercession  made  to  him  for  a  common  friend 
pleased  Dickens  greatly. 

At  the  opening  of  1859,  bent  upon  such  a  successor  to  House- 
hold Words  as  should  carry  on  the  associations  connected  with  its 
name,  Dickens  was  deep  in  search  of  a  title  to  give  expression 
to  theia    *  My  determination  to  settle  the  title  arises  out  of  my  Name 

for  new 

*  knowledge  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  anything  for  the  periodical 

*  work  until  it  has  a  fixed  name  ;  also  out  of  my  observation  that 

*  the  same  odd  feeling  affects  everybody  else.'  He  had  proposed 
to  himself  a  tide  that,  as  in  Household  Words,  might  be  capable 
of  illustration  by  a  line  from  Shakespeare ;  and  alighting  upon 
that  wherein  poor  Henry  the  Sixth  is  fain  to  solace  his  captivity 
by  the  fancy,  that,  like  birds  encaged  he  might  soothe  himself  for 
loss  of  liberty  *  at  last  by  notes  of  household  harmony,'  he  for  the 
time  forgot  that  this  might  hardly  be  accepted  as  a  happy  comment 
on  the  occurrences  out  of  which  the  supposed  necessity  had  arisen 
of  replacing  the  old  by  a  new  household  friend.    *  Don't  you 

*  think,'  he  wrote  on  the  24th  of  January,  *  this  is  a  good  name 

*  and  quotation  ?    I  have  been  quite  delighted  to  get  hold  of  it  ^losen^^' 

*  for  our  title. 

*  Household  Harmony. 

*  "At  last  l)y  notes  of  Household  Harmony." — Shakespeare.'' 


He  was  at  first  reluctant  even  to  admit  the  objection  when 
stated  to  him.    *  I  am  afraid  we  must  not  be  too  particular  about 

*  the  possibility  of  personal  references  and  applications  :  other- 

*  wise  it  is  manifest  that  I  never  can  write  another  book.    I  coulc* 

*  not  invent  a  story  of  any  sort,  it  is  quite  plain,  incapable  ot 

*  being  twisted  into  some  such  nonsensical  shape.    It  would  be 

*  wholly  impossible  to  turn  one  through  half  a  dozen  chapters.' 
Of  course  he  yielded,  nevertheless;   and  much  consideration 


284 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Book  VIII. 


London 
1859-61. 


Other 
titles  sug- 
gested. 


followed  over  sundry  other  titles  submitted.  Reviving  none  of 
those  formerly  rejected,  here  were  a  few  of  these  now  rejected 
in  their  turn.  The  Hearth.  The  Forge.  The  Crucible. 
The  Anvil  of  the  Time.  Charles  Dickens's  Own.  Season- 
able Leaves.  Evergreen  Leaves.  Home.  Home>Music.  Change. 
Time  and  Tide.  Twopence.  English  Bells.  Weekly  Bells. 
The  Rocket.  Good  Humour.  Still  the  great  want  was  the  line 
adaptable  from  Shakespeare,  which  at  last  exultingly  he  sent  on 
the  28th  of  January.  *  I  am  dining  early,  before  reading,  and 
'  write  literally  with  my  mouth  full.    But  I  have  just  hit  upon 

*  a  name  that  I  think  really  an  admirable  one — especially  with 

*  the  quotation  before  it,  in  the  place  where  our  present  H.  W. 

*  quotation  stands. 

*  **  The  story  of  our  lives,  from  year  to  year." — Shakespeare,' 

*All  the  Year  Round. 
'  A  weekly  journal  conducted  by  Charles  Dickens.' 


Stanfield 
scenes  at 
Tavistock 
House  : 
ante,  159, 


With  the  same  resolution  and  energy  other  things  necessary  to 
the  adventure  were  as  promptly  done.    '  I  have  taken  the  new 

*  office,'  he  wrote  from  Tavistock  House  on  the  21st  of  February ; 

*  have  got  workmen  in  ;  have  ordered  the  paper  ;  settled  with  the 

*  printer ;  and  am  getting  an  immense  system  of  advertising  ready. 

*  Blow  to  be  struck  on  the  12th  of  March.  .  .  Meantime  I  cannot 

*  please  myself  with  the  opening  of  my  story '  (the  Tale  of  Two 
Cities^  which  All  the  Year  Round  was  to  start  with),  '  and  cannot 

*  in  the  least  settle  at  it  or  take  to  it.  .  .  I  wish  you  M~ould  come 

*  and  look  at  what  I  flatter  myself  is  a  rather  ingenious  account 

*  to  which  I  have  turned  the  Stanfield  scenery  here.'  He  had 
placed  the  Lighthouse  scene  in  a  single  frame ;  had  divided  the 
scene  of  the  Frozen  Deep  into  two  subjects,  a  British  man-of-war 
and  an  Arctic  sea,  which  he  had  also  framed ;  and  the  school- 
room that  had  been  the  theatre  was  now  hung  with  sea-pieces  by 
a  great  painter  of  the  sea.  To  believe  them  to  have  been  but 
the  amusement  of  a  few  mornings  was  difficult  indeed.  Seen 
from  the  due  distance  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  the  most 
masterly  and  elaborate  art 


§V.]  All  Ihe  Year  Round.  285 

The  first  number  of  All  the  Year  Round  appeared  on  the  30th  London: 

r    1  1  1859-61. 

of  April,  and  the  result  of  the  first  quarter's  accounts  of  the  sale  

will  tell  everything  that  needs  to  be  said  of  a  success  that  went 
on  without  intermission  to  the  close.    '  A  word  before  I  go  back 

*  to  Gadshill,'  he  wrote  from  Tavistock  House  in  July,  '  which  I 

*  know  you  will  be  glad  to  receive.    So  well  has  All  the  Year  Success. 

*  Round  gone  that  it  was  yesterday  able  to  repay  me,  with  five 

*  per  cent  interest,  all  the  money  I  advanced  for  its  establishment 

*  (paper,  print  &c.  all  paid,  down  to  the  last  number),  and  yet  to 

*  leave  a  good  ;£"5oo  balance  at  the  banker's  ! '  Beside  the 
opening  of  his  Tale  of  Two  Cities  its  first  number  had  contained 
another  piece  of  his  writing,  the  '  Poor  Man  and  his  Beer  ; '  as  to 
which  an  interesting  note  has  been  sent  me.  The  Rev.  T.  B. 
Lawes,  of  Rothamsted,  St.  Alban's,  had  been  associated  upon  a 
sanitary  commission  with  Mr.  Henry  Austin,  Dickens's  brother- 
in-law  and  counsellor  in  regard  to  all  such  matters  in  his  own 
houses,  or  in  the  houses  of  the  poor  \  and  this  connection  led  to 

Dickens's  knowledge  of  a  club  that  Mr.  Lawes  had  established  at  Beer  with- 
out the 

Rothamsted,  which  he  became  eager  to  recommend  as  an  example  public- 
house. 

to  other  country  neighbourhoods.  The  club  had  been  set  on 
foot  to  enable  the  agricultural  labourers  of  the  parish  to  have 
their  beer  and  pipes  independent  of  the  public-house ;  and  the 
description  of  it,  says  Mr.  Lawes,  '  was  the  occupation  of  a  drive 

*  between  this  place  (Rothamsted)  and  London,  2  5  miles,  Mr. 

*  Dickens  refusing  the  offer  of  a  bed,  and  saying  that  he  could 

*  arrange  his  ideas  on  the  journey.    In  the  course  of  our  con- 

*  versation  I  mentioned  that  the  labourers  were  very  jealous  of 

*  the  small  tradesmen,  blacksmiths  and  others,  holding  allotment- 

*  gardens ;  but  that  the  latter  did  so  indirectly  by  paying  higher 

*  rents  to  the  labourers  for  a  share.    This  circumstance  is  not 

*  forgotten  in  the  verses  on  the  Blacksmith  in  the  same  number, 

*  composed  by  Mr.  Dickens  and  repeated  to  me  while  he  was  Verses  in 

*  walking  about,  and  which  close  the  mentioa  of  his  gains  with 

*  allusion  to 

*  A  share  (concealed)  in  the  poor  man's  field, 
*  Which  adds  to  the  poor  man's  store,* 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  add  that  the  club  was  still  flourishing 

when  I  received  Mr.  Lawes's  letter,  on  the  i8th  of  December  187 1. 


286 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London  : 
1859-61. 


Distinction 
of  All 
the  Year 
Round 
from 

Household 
Words. 


At  Kneb- 
worth. 


The  periodical  thus  established  M^as  in  all  respects,  save  one,  so 
exactly  the  counterpart  of  what  it  replaced,  that  a  mention  of 
this  point  of  difference  is  the  only  description  of  it  called  for. 
Besides  his  own  three-volume  stories  of  The  Tale  of  Two  Cities 
and  Great  Expectations^  Dickens  admitted  into  it  other  stories  of 
the  same  length  by  writers  of  character  and  name,  of  which  the 
authorship  was  avowed.  It  published  tales  of  varied  merit  and 
success  by  Mr.  Edmund  Yates,  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  and  Mr. 
Charles  Lever.  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  contributed  to  it  his  Woman 
in  White,  No  Name,  and  Moonstone,  the  first  of  which  had  a  pre- 
eminent success ;  Mr.  Reade  his  Hard  Cash  ;  and  Lord  Lytton 
his  Strange  Story.  Conferring  about  the  latter  Dickens  passed 
a  week  at  Knebworth,  accompanied  by  his  daughter  and  sister- 
in-law,  in  the  summer  of  1 861,  as  soon  as  he  had  closed  Great 
Expectations  ;  and  there  met  Mr.  Arthur  Helps,  with  whom  and 
Lord  Orford  he  visited  the  so-called  '  Hermit '  near  Stevenage, 
whom  he  described  as  Mr.  Mopes  in  Tom  Tiddlet^s  Ground. 
With  his  great  brother-artist  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself,  as  he 
invariably  did  ;  and  reported  him  as  '  in  better  health  and  spirits 

*  than  I  have  seen  him  in,  in  all  these  years, — a  little  weird 

*  occasionally  regarding  magic  and  spirits,  but  always  fair  and 

*  frank  under  opposition.  He  was  brilliantly  talkative,  anecdotical, 

*  and  droll ;  looked  young  and  well ;  laughed  heartily ;  and 
'  enjoyed  with  great  zest  some  games  we  played.  In  his  artist- 
'  character  and  talk,  he  was  full  of  interest  and  matter,  saying  the 

*  subtlest  and  finest  things — but  that  he  never  fails  in.  I  enjoyed 
'  myself  immensely,  as  we  all  did.'* 

In  All  the  Year  Round,  as  in  its  predecessor,  the  tales  for 


Famous 
men  going 
off. 


*  From  the  same  letter,  dated  1st 
of  July  1 86 1,  I  take  what  follows, 

*  Poor  Lord  Campbell's  seems  to  me  as 
'  easy  and  good  a  death  as  one  could 

*  desire.    There  must  be  a  sweep  of 

*  these  men  very  soon,  and  one  feels 
'  as  if  it  must  fall  out  like  the  breaking 

*  of  an  arch — one  stone  goes  from  a 

*  prominent  place,  and  then  the  rest 

*  begin  to  drop.    So,  one  looks,  nof. 

*  without  satisfaction  (in  our  sadness) 


*  at  lives  so  rounded  and  complete, 
'  towards  Brougham,  and  Lyndhurst, 
'  and  Pollock '  ,  .  .  Yet,  of  Dickens's 
own  death,  Pollock  lived  to  write  to 
me  as  the  death  of  *  one  of  the  most 
'  distinguished  and  honoured  men  Eng- 
'  land  has  ever  produced ;  in  whose 

*  loss  every  man  among  us  feels  that  he 

*  has  lost  a  friend  and  an  instructor.* 
Temple-Hatton,  loth  of  June  1870. 


Uncommercial  Traveller. 


287 


Christmas  were  of  course  continued,  but  with  a  surprisingly  London: 

1859-61. 

increased  popularity ;  and  Dickens  never  had  such  sale  for  any  

of  his  writings  as  for  his  Christmas  pieces  in  the  later  periodical. 

It  had  reached,  before  he  died,  to  nearly  three  hundred  thousand.  Christmas 

numbers. 

The  first  was  called  the  Haunted  House^  and  had  a  small  mention 
of  a  true  occurrence  in  his  boyhood  which  is  not  included  in  the 
bitter  record  on  a  former  page.    '  I  was  taken  home,  and  there 

*  was  debt  at  home  as  well  as  death,  and  we  had  a  sale  there. 

*  My  own  little  bed  was  so  superciliously  looked  upon  by  a 

*  power  unknown  to  me  hazily  called  The  Trade,  that  a  brass 
'  coal-scuttle,  a  roasting  jack,  and  a  bird  cage  were  obliged  to  be 

*  put  into  it  to  make  a  lot  of  it,  and  then  it  went  for  a  song.  So 

*  I  heard  mentioned,  and  I  wondered  what  song,  and  thought 

*  what  a  dismal  song  it  must  have  been  to  sing ! '    The  other 
subjects  will  have  mention  in  another  chapter. 

His  tales  were  not  his  only  important  work  in  All  the  Year  Detached 

papers. 

Round.  The  detached  papers  written  by  him  there  had  a 
character  and  completeness  derived  from  their  plan,  and  from  the 
personal  tone,  as  well  as  frequent  individual  confessions,  by 
which  their  interest  is  enhanced,  and  which  will  always  make 
them  specially  attractive.  Their  title  expressed  a  personal  liking. 
Of  all  the  societies,  charitable  or  self-assisting,  which  his  tact  and 
eloquence  in  the  '  chair '  so  often  helped,  none  had  interested  him 
by  the  character  of  its  service  to  its  members,  and  the  perfection 
of  its  management,  so  much  as  that  of  the  Commercial  Travellers.  Com- 

mercial 

His  admiration  of  their  schools  introduced  him  to  one  who  then  TraveiieiV 

schools. 

acted  as  their  treasurer,  and  whom,  of  all  the  men  he  had  known, 
I  think  he  rated  highest  for  the  union  of  business  qualities  in  an 
incomparable  measure  to  a  nature  comprehensive  enough  to  deal 
with  masses  of  men,  however  differing  in  creed  or  opinion, 
humanely  and  justly.  He  never  afterwards  wanted  support  for 
any  good  work  that  he  did  not  think  first  of  Mr.  George  Moore,* 

*  If  space  were  available  here,  his  allusion  to  an  incident  that  tickled  his 

letters  would  supply  many  proofs  of  fancy  very  much  at  the  time.  *  I  hope ' 

his  interest  in  Mr.  George  Moore's  (20th  of  Aug.  1863)  'you  have  been 

admirable  projects  ;  but  I  can  only  *  as  much  amused  as  I  am  by  the 

make  exception  for  his  characteristic  *  account  of  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  at 


288 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [Book  viii. 


London : 
1859-61. 

Mr.  George 
Moore. 


A  traveller 
for  Human- 
interest 
Brothers. 


Personal 
references. 


and  appeal  was  never  made  to  him  in  vain.    *  Integrity,  enter- 

*  prise,  public  spirit,  and  benevolence,'  he  told  the  Commercial 
Travellers  on  one  occasion,  '  had  their  synonym  in  Mr.  Moore's 

*  name ; '  and  it  was  another  form  of  the  same  liking  when  he 
took  to  himself  the  character  and  title  of  a  Traveller  6^com- 
mercial.    *  I  am  both  a  town  traveller  and  a  country  traveller, 

*  and  am  always  on  the  road.    Figuratively  speaking,  I  travel  for 

*  the  great  house  of  Human-interest  Brothers,  and  have  rather  a 

*  large  connection  in  the  fancy  goods  way.    Literally  speaking,  I 

*  am  always  wandering  here  and  there  from  my  rooms  in  Covent- 
*■  garden,  London  :  now  about  the  city  streets,  now  about  the 

*  country  by-roads  :  seeing  many  little  things,  and  some  great 
things,^  which,  because  they  interest  me,  I  think  may  interest 

*  others.'  In  a  few  words  that  was  the  plan  and  drift  of  the 
papers  which  he  began  in  i860,  and  continued  to  write  from  time 
to  time  until  the  last  autumn  of  his  life. 

Many  of  them,  such  as  *  Travelling  Abroad,'  *  City  Churches,* 

*  Dullborough,'  *  Nurses'  Stories '  and  *  Birthday  Celebrations,' 
have  supplied  traits,  chiefly  of  his  younger  days,  to  portions  of 
this  memoir ;  and  parts  of  his  later  life  receive  illustration  from 
others,  such  as  *  Tramps,'  *  Night  Walks,'  *  Shy  Neighbourhoods,' 

*  The  Italian  Prisoner,'  and  *  Chatham  Dockyard.'  Indeed  hardly 
any  is  without  its  personal  interest  or  illustration.  One  may 
learn  from  them,  among  other  things,  what  kind  of  treatment  he 
resorted  to  for  the  disorder  of  sleeplessness  from  which  he  had 
often  suffered  amid  his  late  anxieties.  Experimenting  upon  it  in 
bed,  he  found  to  be  too  slow  and  doubtful  a  process  for  him ;  but 
he  very  soon  defeated  his  enemy  by  the  brisker  treatment,  of 
getting  up  directly  after  lying  down,  going  out,  and  coming  home 
tired  at  sunrise.    *  My  last  special  feat  was  turning  out  of  bed  at 

*  two,  after  a  hard  day  pedestrian  and  otherwise,  and  walking 


Children       *  particular   friend's)  Mr. 

and  Bisliop.   *  George  Moore's  schools  ?    It  strikes 
'  me  as  the  funniest  piece  of  weakness 

*  I  ever  saw,  his  addressing  those  un- 

*  fortunate  children  concerning  Colen- 
'  so,    I  cannot  get  over  the  ridiculous 


*  image  I  have  erected  in  my  mind,  of 

*  the  shovel-hat  and  apron  holding 

*  forth ,  at  that  safe  distance,  to  that 
«  safe  audience.    There  is  nothing  so 

*  extravagant  in  Rabelais,  or  so  sati- 
'  rically  humorous  in  Swift  or  Voltaire.' 


§  v.]  Unco7nmercial  Traveller.  2S9 

*  thirty  miles  into  the  country  to  breakfast'    One  description  he  London  : 

did  not  give  in  his  paper,  but  I  recollect  his  saying  that  he  had  — 

seldom  seen  anything  so  striking  as  the  way  in  which  the  wonders 

of  an  equinoctial  dawn  (it  was  the  15th  of  October  1857)  pre- 
sented themselves  during  that  walk.  He  had  never  before  hap- 
pened to  see  night  so  completely  at  odds  with  morning,  *  which 

*  was  which.'    Another  experience  of  his  night  ramblings  used  to  a  great 

city  gettinjj 

be  given  in  vivid  sketches  of  the  restlessness  of  a  great  city,  and  to  sleep, 
the  manner  in  which  //  also  tumbles  and  tosses  before  it  can  get 
to  sleep.  Nor  should  anyone  curious  about  his  habits  and  ways 
omit  to  accompany  him  with  his  Tramps  into  Gadshill  lanes  ;  or 
to  follow  him  into  his  Shy  Neighbourhoods  of  the  Hackney-road, 
Waterloo-road,  Spitalfields,  or  Bethnal-green.  For  delightful 
observation  both  of  country  and  town,  for  the  wit  that  finds 
analogies  between  remote  and  familiar  things,  and  for  humorous 
personal  sketches  and  experience,  these  are  perfect  of  their  kind. 

*  I  have  my  eye  upon  a  piece  of  Kentish  road,  bordered  on  'Tramp 

*  either  side  by  a  wood,  and  having  on  one  hand,  between  the  rientes. 

*  road-dust  and  the  trees,  a  skirting  patch  of  grass.    Wild  flowers 

*  grow  in  abundance  on  this  spot,  and  it  lies  high  and  airy,  with 

*  a  distant  river  stealing  steadily  away  to  the  ocean,  like  a  man's 

*  life.    To  gain  the  milestone  here,  which  the  moss,  primroses, 

*  violets,  blue-bells,  and  wild  roses,  would  soon  render  illegible 

*  but  for  peering  travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks, 

*  you  must  come  up  a  steep  hill,  come  which  way  you  may.  So, 

*  all  the  tramps  with  carts  or  caravans — the  Gipsy-tramp,  the 

*  Show-tramp,  the  Cheap  Jack — find  it  impossible  to  resist  the 

*  temptations  of  the  place  ;  and  all  turn  the  horse  loose  when  they 

*  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot.    Bless  the  place,  I  love  the  ashes 

*  of  the  vagabond  fires  that  have  scorched  its  grass  ! '  It  was 
there  he  found  Dr.  Marigold,  and  Chops  the  Dwarf,  and  the 
White-haired  Lady  with  the  pink  eyes  eating  meat-pie  with  the 
Giant.  So,  too,  in  his  Shy  Neighbourhoods,  when  he  relates  his 
experiences  of  the  bad  company  that  birds  are  fond  of,  and  of  the  Birds 
effect  upon  domestic  fowls  of  living  in  low  districts,  his  method  of  Jhe'^worid. 
handling  the  subject  has  all  the  charm  of  a  discovery.    *  That 

^  anything  born  of  an  egg  and  invested  with  win^s  should  have 

VOL.  II.  V 


290 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London:  *  got  to  the  pass  that  it  hops  Contentedly  down  a  ladder  into  a 
1859-61. 

 *  cellar,  and  calls  that  going  home,  is  a  circumstance  so  amazing 

*  as  to  leave  one  nothing  more  in  this  connexion  to  wonder  at.* 
One  of  his  illustrations  is  a  reduced  Bantam  family  in  the 
Hackney-road  deriving  their  sole  enjoyment  from  crowding 
together  in  a  pawnbroker's  side-entry ;  but  seeming  as  if  only 
newly  come  down  in  the  world,  and  always  in  a  feeble  flutter  of 
fear  that  they  may  be  found  out.    He  contrasts  them  with  others. 

'  I  know  a  low  fellow,  originally  of  a  good  family  from  Dorking, 
'  who  takes  his  whole  establishment  of  wives,  in  single  file,  in  at 
'  the  door  of  the  Jug  Department  of  a  disorderly  tavern  near  the 
'  Haymarket,  manoeuvres  them  among  the  company's  legs, 
'  emerges  with  them  at  the  Bottle  Entrance,  and  so  passes  his 
'  hfe  :  seldom,  in  the  season,  going  to  bed  before  two  in  the 
^  morning.  .  .  .  But  the  family  I  am  best  acquainted  with  reside 

*  in  the  densest  part  of  Bethnal-green.  Their  abstraction  from 
Bethnai-  <■  the  objects  among  which  they  live,  or  rather  their  conviction 
fowls.        <  that  those  objects  have  all  come  into  existence  in  express  sub- 

*  servience  to  fowls,  has  so  enchanted  me,  that  I  have  made  them 
^  the  subject  of  many  journeys  at  divers  hours.  After  careful 
'  observation  of  the  two  lords  and  the  ten  ladies  of  whom  this 
'  family  consists,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  their 
'  opinions  are  represented  by  the  leading  lord  and  leading  lady  : 
'  the  latter,  as  I  judge,  an  aged  personage,  afflicted  with  a  paucity 
'  of  feather  and  visibility  of  quill  that  gives  her  the  appearance  of 
'  a  bundle  of  office  pens.    When  a  railway  goods-van  that  would 

*  crush  an  elephant  comes  round  the  comer,  tearing  over  these 

*  fowls,  they  emerge  unharmed  from  under  the  horses,  perfectly 
'  satisfied  that  the  whole  rush  was  a  passing  property  in  the  air, 

*  which  may  have  left  something  to  eat  behind  it.    They  look 

*  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of  kettles  and  saucepans,  and  fragments 

*  of  bonnets,  as  a  kind  of  meteoric  discharge,  for  fowls  to  peck  at. 
' .  .  .  Gaslight  comes  quite  as  natural  to  them  as  any  other  light ; 
'  and  I  have  more  than  a  suspicion  that,  in  the  minds  of  the  two 

*  lords,  the  early  public-house  at  the  corner  has  superseded  the 

*  sun.    They  always  begin  to  crow  when  the  public-house  abutters 

*  begin  to  be  taken  down,  and  they  salute  the  Potboy,  the  instant 


Uncommercial  Traveller, 


291 


*  he  appears  to  perform  that  duty,  as  if  he  were  Phoebus  in  person.'   London  : 

1859-61. 

For  the  truth  of  the  personal  adventure  in  the  same  essay,  which  

he  tells  in  proof  of  a  propensity  to  bad  company  in  more  refined 

members  of  the  feathered  race,  I  am  myself  in  a  position  to  vouch. 

Walking  by  a  dirty  court  in  Spitalfields  one  day,  the  quick  little 

busy  intelligence  of  a  goldfinch,  drawing  water  for  himself  in  his 

cage,  so  attracted  him  that  he  bought  the  bird,  which  had  other 

accomplishments  j  but  not  one  of  them  would  the  little  creature 

show  off  in  his  new  abode  in  Doughty-street,  and  he  drew  no  An  incident 

of  Doughty- 
water  but  by  stealth  or  under  the  cloak  of  night.    '  After  an  street. 

*  interval  of  futile  and  at  length  hopeless  expectation,  the  mer- 

*  chant  who  had  educated  him  was  appealed  to.    The  merchant 

*  was  a  bow-legged  character,  with  a  flat  and  cushiony  nose,  like 

*  the  last  new  strawberry.    He  wore  a  fur  cap,  and  shorts,  and 

*  was  of  the  velveteen  race,  velveteeny.    He  sent  word  that  he 

*  would  "  look  round."  He  looked  round,  appeared  in  the  door- 
*■  way  of  the  room,  and  slightly  cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the  gold- 

*  finch.    Instantly  a  raging  thirst  beset  that  bird ;  and  when  it 

*  was  appeased,  he  still  drew  several  unnecessary  buckets  of  water, 
'  leaping  about  his  perch  and  sharpening  his  bill  with  irrepressible 

*  satisfaction.' 

The  Uncommercial  Traveller  papers,  his  two  serial  stories,  and 
his  Christmas  tales,  were  all  the  contributions  of  any  importance 
made  by  Dickens  to  All  the  Year  Round ;  but  he  reprinted  in  it, 
on  the  completion  of  his  first  story,  a  short  tale  called  Hunted 
Down,  written  for  a  newspaper  in  America  called  the  New  York 
Ledger.  Its  subject  had  been  taken  from  the  life  of  a  notorious 
criminal  already  named  {ante^  i.  121,  523),  and  its  principal  claim  to 
notice  was  the  price  paid  for  it.  For  a  story  not  longer  than  half 
of  one  of  the  numbers  of  Chuzzlewit  or  Copperfield,  he  had  received 
a  thousand  pounds.*  It  was  one  of  the  indications  of  the  eager  offers  from 
desire  which  his  entry  on  the  career  of  a  public  reader  had  aroused 
in  America  to  induce  him  again  to  visit  that  continent ;  and  at 

*  Eight  years  later  he  wrote  *  I  loli-     same  length,  and  for  the  same  price. 

*  day  Romance' for  a  Child's  Magazine     There  are  no  other  such  instances,  I 
published  by  Mr.  Fields,  and  *  George     suppose,  in  the  history  of  literature. 

^  Silverman's  txplauatipn  '  —  of  the 

V  a 


292 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


London  :  the  verv  time  he  had  this  masriificent  offer  from  the  New  York 
1859—61.  ^ 

 journal,  Mr.  Fields  of  Boston,  who  was  then  on  a  visit  to  Europe, 

was  pressing  him  so  much  to  go  that  his  resolution  was  almost 
shaken.  *  I  am  now,*  he  wrote  to  me  from  Gadshill  on  the  9th  of 
July  1859,  *  getting  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  into  that  state  that  IF 

*  I  should  decide  to  go  to  America  late  in  September,  I  could 

*  turn  to,  at  any  time,  and  write  on  with  great  vigour.    Mr.  Fields 

*  has  been  down  here  for  a  day,  and  with  the  strongest  intensity 

*  urges  that  there  is  no  drawback,  no  commercial  excitement  or 

*  crisis,  no  political  agitation ;  and  that  so  favourable  an  oppor- 

*  tunity,  in  all  respects,  might  not  occur  again  for  years  and  years. 

*  I  should  be  one  of  the  most  unhappy  of  men  if  I  were  to  go, 

*  and  yet  I  cannot  help  being  much  stirred  and  influenced  by  the 
'  golden  prospect  held  before  me.' 

Not  yet         He  yielded  nevertheless  to  other  persuasion,  and  for  that  time 

to  be.  .  . 

the  visit  was  not  to  be.  In  six  months  more  the  Civil  War  began^ 
and  America  was  closed  to  any  such  enterprise  for  nearly  five 
years. 


VI. 

SECOND  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 
1861— 1863. 

Gadshill  :  At  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  residence  at  Gadshill  it  was  the 
remark  of  Dickens  that  nothing  had  gratified  him  so  much  as  the 
confidence  with  which  his  poorer  neighbours  treated  him.  He 
had  tested  generally  their  worth  and  good  conduct,  and  they  had 
been  encouraged  in  any  illness  or  trouble  to  resort  to  him  for 
help.    There  was  pleasant  indication  of  the  feeling  thus  awakened, 

Daughter's  when,  in  the  summer  of  i860,  his  younger  daughter  Kate  was 
married  to  Charles  Alston  Collins,  brother  of  the  novelist,  and 
younger  son  of  the  painter  and  academician,  who  might  have 
found,  if  spared  to  witness  that  summer-morning  scene,  subjects 
not  unworthy  of  his  delightful  pencil  in  many  a  rustic  group  near 
Gadshill    All  the  villagers  had  turned  out  in  honour  of  Dickens, 


J  VI.] 


Second  Series  of  Readings, 


293 


and  the  carnages  could  hardly  get  to  and  from  the  little  church  ^^^^muL 

for  the  succession  of  triumphal  arches  they  had  to  pass  through. 

It  was  quite  unexpected  by  him ;  and  when  the  feu  de  joie  of  the 

blacksmith  in  the  lane,  whose  enthusiasm  had  smuggled  a  couple 

of  small  cannon  into  his  forge,  exploded  upon  him  at  the  return, 

I  doubt  if  the  shyest  of  men  was  ever  so  taken  aback  at  an 

ovation. 

To  name  the  principal  persons  present  that  day  will  indicate 
the  faces  that  (with  addition  of  Miss  Mary  Boyle,  Miss  Margue- 
rite Power,  Mr.  Fechter,  Mr.  Charles  Kent,  Mr.  Edmund  Yates, 
Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  and  members  of  the  family  of  Mr.  Frank 
Stone,  whose  sudden  death  *  in  the  preceding  year  had  been  a 
great  grief  to  Dickens)  were  most  familiar  at  Gadshill  in  these 
later  years.  Mr.  Frederic  Lehmann  was  there  with  his  wife, 
whose  sister.  Miss  Chambers,  was  one  of  the  bridesmaids ;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wills  were   there,  and  Dickens's   old   fast  friend  Weddinjf 

party. 

Mr.  Thomas  Beard ;  the  two  nearest  country  neighbours  with 
whom  the  family  had  become  very  intimate,  Mr.  Hulkes  and 
Mr.  Malleson,  with  their  wives,  joined  the  party ;  among  the 
others  were  Henry  Chorley,  Chauncy  Hare  Townshend,  and 
Wilkie  Collins ;  and,  for  friend  special  to  the  occasion,  the 
bridegroom  had  brought  his  old  fellow-student  in  art,  Mr.  Hol- 
man  Hunt.  Mr.  Charles  Collins  had  himself  been  bred  as  a 
painter,  for  success  in  which  line  he  had  some  rare  gifts ;  but 
inclination  and  capacity  led  him  also  to  literature,  and,  after 
much  indecision  between  the  two  callings,  he  took  finally  to 
letters.  His  contributions  to  All  the  Year  Round  were  among  charies 
the  most  charming  of  its  detached  papers,  and  two  stories  pub-  CoiHns. 
lished  independently  showed  strength  of  wing  for  higher  flights. 


*  '  You  will  be  grieved '  he  wrote 
(Saturday  19th  of  Nov.  1859)  *  to  hear 
'  of  poor  Stone.    On  Sunday  he  was 

*  not  well.  On  Monday,  went  to  Dr. 
'  Todd,  who  told  him  he  had  aneurism 
'  of  the  heart.  On  Tuesday,  went  to 
'  Dr.  Walsh,  who  told  him  he  hadn't. 

*  On  Wednesday  I  met  him  in  a  cab 

*  in  the  Square  here,  and  he  got  out 


'  to  talk  to  me.  I  walked  about  with  Death  ol 
'  him  a  little  while  at  a  snail's  pace,  Ij^i^e 

*  cheering  him  up  ;  but  when  I  came  A.R.A. 

*  home,  I  told  them  that  I  thought 
'  him  much  changed  and  in  danger. 
'  Yesterday  at  2  o'clock  he  died  of 
'  spasm  of  the  heart.  I  am  going  up 
'  to  Ilighgate  to  look  for  a  p^rave  for 
'him.' 


294 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VIII. 


Gadshill:  But  his  health  broke  down,  and  his  taste  was  too  fastidious  for 

i860.       ...  . 
 his  failing  power.    It  is  possible  however  that  he  may  live  by 

two  small  books  of  description,  the  New  Sentimental  J^oumey 
and  the  Cruise  on  Wheels^  which  have  in  them  unusual  delicacy 
and  refinement  of  humour ;  and  if  those  volumes  should  make 
any  readers  in  another  generation  curious  about  the  writer,  they 
will  learn,  if  correct  reply  is  given  to  their  inquiries,  that  no 
man  disappointed  so  many  reasonable  hopes  with  so  little  fault 
or  failure  of  his  own,  that  his  difficulty  always  was  to  please 
himself,  and  that  an  inferior  mind  would  have  been  more  suc- 
cessful in  both  the  arts  he  followed.  He  died  in  1873 
forty-fifth  year ;  and  until  then  it  was  not  known,  even  by  those 
nearest  to  him,  how  great  must  have  been  the  suffering  which 
he  had  borne,  through  many  trying  years,  with  uncomplaining 
patience. 

His  daughter's  marriage  was  the  chiet  event  that  had  crossed 
the  even  tenor  of  Dickens's  life  since  his  first  paid  readings 
closed;  and  it  was  followed  by  the  sale  of  Tavistock  House, 
with  the  resolve  to  make  his  future  home  at  Gadshill.  In  the 
brief  interval  (29th  of  July)  he  wrote  to  me  of  his  brother 
Alfred's  death.    *  I  was  telegraphed  for  to  Manchester  on  Friday 

*  night.    Arrived  there  at  a  quarter  past  ten,  but  he  had  been 

*  dead  three  hours,  poor  fellow !    He  is  to  be  buried  at  High- 

*  gate  on  Wednesday.  I  brought  the  poor  young  widow  back 
'  with  me  yesterday.'  All  that  this  death  involved,*  the  troubles 
of  his  change  of  home,  and  some  difficulties  in  working  out  his 
story,  gave  him  more  than  sufficient  occupation  till  the  following 


Sale  of 

Tavistock 

House. 


Brother 
Alfred's 
deatli. 


*  He  was  now  hard  at  work  on  his 
story  ;  and  a  note  written  from  Gads- 
hill after  the  funeral  shows,  what  so 
frequently  was  incident  to  his  pursuits, 
the  hard  conditions  under  which  sor- 
row, and  its  claim  on  his  exertion, 
often  came  to  him.    'To-morrow  I 

*  have  to  work  against  time  and  tide 

*  and  everything  else,  to  fill  up  a  No. 

*  keeping  open  for  me,  and  the  stereo- 

*  type  plates  of  which  must  go  to 
'  America  on  Friday.    But  indeed  the 


*  enquiry  into  poor  Alfred's  affairs ; 

*  the  necessity  of  putting  the  widow 
'  and  children  somewhere  ;  the  diffi- 

*  culty  of  knowing  what  to  do  for  the 

*  best ;  and  the  need  I  feel  under  of 

*  being  as  composed  and  deliberate  as 
'  I  can  be,  and  yet  of  not  shirking  or 
'  putting  off  the  occasion  that  there 
'  is  for  doing  a  duty  ;  would  have 
'  brought  me  back  here  to  be  quiet, 

*  under  any  circumstances.' 


Second  Series  of  Readings. 


295 


spring ;  and  as  the  time  arrived  for  the  new  readings,  the  change  London  : 

was  a  not  unwelcome  one.   

The  first  portion  of  this  second  series  was  planned  by  Mr. 
Arthur  Smith,  but  he  only  superintended  the  six  readings  in 
London  which  opened  it.  These  were  the  first  at  St.  James's 
Hall  (St.  Martin's  Hall  having  been  burnt  since  the  last  readings  Metro- 

politan 

there)  and  were  given  in  March  and  April  1861.    'We  are  all  readings. 
'  well  here  and  flourishing,'  he  wrote  to  me  from  Gadshill  on  the 
28th  of  April.    *  On  the  i8th  I  finished  the  readings  as  I  pur- 
'  posed.    We  had  between  seventy  and  eighty  pounds  in  the 

*  stalls,  which,  at  four  shillings  apiece,  is  something  quite  unpre- 

*  cedented  in  these  times.  .  .  .  The  result  of  the  six  was,  that, 

*  after  paying  a  large  staff  of  men  and  all  other  charges,  and 

*  Arthur  Smith's  ten  per  cent,  on  the  receipts,  and  replacing 
*■  everything  destroyed  in  the  fire  at  St.  Martin's  Hall  (including 

*  all  our  tickets,  country-baggage,  cheque-boxes,  books,  and  a 

*  quantity  of  gas-fittings  and  what  not),  I  got  upwards  of 
*;^5oo.    A  very  great  result    We  certainly  might  have  gone  on 

*  through  the  season,  but  I  am  heartily  glad  to  be  concentrated  on 

*  my  story.' 

It  had  been  part  of  his  plan  that  the  Provincial  Readings  Proposed 

readings  in 

should  not  begm  until  a  certain  interval  after  the  close  of  his  provinces, 
story  of  Great  Expectations.  They  were  delayed  accordingly 
until  the  28th  of  October,  from  which  date,  when  they  opened 
at  Norwich,  they  went  on  with  the  Christmas  intervals  to  be 
presently  named  to  the  30th  of  January  1862,  when  they  closed 
at  Chester.  Kept  within  England  and  Scotland,  they  took  in  the 
border  town  of  Berwick,  and,  besides  the  Scotch  cities,  comprised 
the  contrasts  and  varieties  of  Norwich  and  Lancaster,  Bury  St. 
Edmunds  and  Cheltenham,  Carlisle  and  Hastings,  Plymouth  and 
Birmingham,  Canterbury  and  Torquay,  Preston  and  Ipswich, 
Manchester  and  Brighton,  Colchester  and  Dover,  Newcastle 
and  Chester.  They  were  followed  by  ten  readings  at  the  St.  others  in 
James's  Hall,  between  the  13th  of  March  and  the  27th  of  June  sSe^ 
1862  ;  and  by  four  at  Paris  in  January  1863,  given  at  the  Em- 
bassy in  aid  of  the  British  Charitable  Fund.  The  second  series 
had  thus  in  the  number  of  the  readings  nearly  equalled  the 


296 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VIII. 


London:  first,  when  it  closed  at  London  in  June  1863  with  thirteen 
readings  in  the  Hanover  Square  Rooms ;  and  it  is  exclusively 
the  subject  of  such  illustrations  or  references  as  this  chapter  will 
supply. 

On  Great  Expectations  closing  in  June  1861,  Bulwer  Lytton,  at 
Dickens's  earnest  wish,  took  his  place  in  All  the  Year  Rou?id 
with  the  *  Strange  Story ; '  and  he  then  indulged  himself  in  idle- 
do°inl  no-    ^^^^        ^  ^^^^^^  while.    *  The  subsidence  of  those  distressing 
thing.        <  pains  in  my  face  the  moment  I  had  done  my  work,  made  me 
'  resolve  to  do  nothing  in  that  way  for  some  time  if  I  could  help 
'  it.'  *    But  his  ^ doing  nothing'  was  seldom  more  than  a  figure 
of  speech,  and  what  it  meant  in  this  case  was  soon  told.    *  Every 
'  day  for  two  or  three  hours,  I  practise  my  new  readings,  and 
'  (except  in  my  office  work)  do  nothing  else.     With  great 
'  pains  I  have  made  a  continuous  narrative  out  of  Copper- 
^  field,  that  I  think  will  reward  the  exertion  it  is  likely  to  cost 
'  me.    Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  it  will  be  very  valuable  in 
'  London.    I  have  also  done  Nicholas  JMckleby  at  the  Yorkshire 
'  school,  and  hope  I  have  got  something  droll  out  of  Squeers, 
New  sub-    <  John  Browdie,  &  Co.    Also,  the  Bastille  prisoner  from  the  Tale 
readings.     i  ^  j'^fQ  Ciftes.    Also,  the  Dwarf  from  one  of  our  Christmas 
'  numbers.'    Only  the  first  two  were  added  to  the  list  for  the 
present  circuit. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  active  preparations  that  painful 
news  reached  him.  An  illness  under  which  Mr.  Arthur  Smith 
had  been  some  time  suffering  took  unexpectedly  a  dangerous  turn, 
and  there  came  to  be  but  small  chance  of  his  recovery.  A  dis- 
tressing interview  on  the  28th  of  September  gave  Dickens  little 
Illness  of  hope.  *  And  yet  his  wakings  and  wanderings  so  perpetually 
'  turn  on  his  arrangements  for  the  Readings,  and  he  is  so 
'  desperately  unwilling  to  relinquish  the  idea  of  "  going  on  with 
^  "  the  business  "  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow,  that 
'  I  had  not  the  heart  to  press  him  for  the  papers.    He  told  me 

*  The  same  letter   adds  :    *  The  *  up  bravely.     As  well  as  we  can 

*  fourth  edition  of  Great  Expectations  *  make  out,  we  have  even  risen  fifteen 

*  is  now  going  to  press,  the  third  being  *  hundred.' 

*  nearly  out.    Bulwer's  story  keeps  us 


Second  Series  of  Readings. 


297 


*  that  he  believed  he  had  by  him  "  70  or  80  letters  unanswered."   London  : 

*  You  may  imagine  how  anxious  it  makes  me,  and  at  what  a  

*  deadstop  I  stand,'  Another  week  passed,  and  with  it  the  time 
fixed  at  the  places  where  his  work  was  to  have  opened ;  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  act  as  if  all  hope  had  gone.    *  With 

*  a  sick  man  who  has  been  so  zealous  and  faithful,  I  feel  bound 

*  to  be  very  tender  and  patient.    When  I  told  him  the  other  day 

*  about  my  having  engaged  Headland — "  to  do  all  the  personally 

*  "  bustling  and  fatiguing  part  of  your  work,"  I  said — he  nodded 

*  his  heavy  head  with  great  satisfaction,  and  faintly  got  of  him- 

*  self  the  words,  "  Of  course  I  pay  him,  and  not  you." '  The 

poor  fellow  died  in  October ;  and  on  the  day  after  attending  the  ^is  death, 
funeral,*  Dickens  heard  of  the  death  of  his  brother-in-law  and 
friend,  Mr.  Henry  Austin,  whose  abilities  and  character  he  re- 
spected as  much  as  he  liked  the  man.  He  lost  much  in  losing 
the  judicious  and  safe  counsel  which  had  guided  him  on  many  gj^^'^f^^^ 
pubhc  questions  in  which  he  took  lively  interest,  and  it  was  with 
a  heavy  heart  he  set  out  at  last  upon  his  second  circuit.    *  With 

*  what  difficulty  I  get  myself  back  to  the  readings  after  all  this 
'  loss  and  trouble,  or  with  what  unwillingness  I  work  myself  up 

*  to  the  mark  of  looking  them  in  the  face,  I  can  hardly  say.  As 

*  for  poor  Arthur  Smith  at  this  time,  it  is  as  if  my  right  arm  were  Jj^^^^^^P" 

*  gone.    It  is  only  just  now  that  I  am  able  to  open  one  of  the  Readings. 

*  books,  and  screw  the  text  out  of  myself  in  a  flat  dull  way.  En- 

*  closed  is  the  list  of  what  I  have  to  do.    You  will  see  that  I 

*  have  left  ten  days  in  November  for  the  Christmas  number,  and 

*  also  a  good  Christmas  margin  for  our  meeting  at  Gadshill.  I 


•  '  There  was  a  very  touching  thing 

*  in  the  Chapel '  (at  Brompton). 
«  When  the  body  was  to  be  taken  up 

*  and   carried   to  the  grave,  there 

*  stepped  out,  instead  of  the  under- 

*  taker's  men  with  their  hideous  para- 

*  phemaha,  the  men  who  had  always 

*  been  with  the  two  brothers  at  the 

*  Egyptian  Hall ;  and  they,  in  their 

*  plain,  decent,  own  mourning  clothes, 

*  carried  the  poor  fellow  away.  Also, 

*  standing  about  among  the  grave- 


'  stones,  dressed  in  black,  I  noticed 

*  every  kind  of  person  who  had  ever 

*  had  to  do  with  him — from  our  own 
'  gas  man  and  doorkeepers  and  bill- 
'  stickers,  up  to  Johnson  the  printer 

*  and  that  class  of  man.  The  father 
'  and  Albert  and  he  now  lie  together, 

*  and  the  grave,  I  suppose,  will  be  no 

'  more  disturbed.  I  wrote  a  little  in-  Funeral  cf 
<       •  r     ^1      ,  ,  .   .  Mr.  Arthui 

scnption  for  the  stone,  and  it  is  quite  Smith. 

'  full.' 


298 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VIII. 


Provinces  ; 
1861. 

Eldest 
son's  mar- 
riage. 


Effect  of 
Nickleby. 


At  Brigh- 
ton. 


*  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  the  money  that  I  expect  to  get ;  but 

*  it  will  be  earned/  That  November  interval  was  also  the  date 
of  the  marriage  of  his  eldest  son  to  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Evans, 
so  long,  in  connection  with  Mr.  Bradbury,  his  publisher  and 
printer. 

The  start  of  the  readings  at  Norwich  was  not  good,  so  many 
changes  of  vexation  having  been  incident  to  the  opening  an- 
nouncements as  to  leave  some  doubt  of  their  fulfilment.  But  the 
second  night,  when  trial  was  made  of  the  Nickleby  scenes,  *  we 

*  had  a  splendid  hall,  and  I  think  Nickleby  will  top  all  the 
'  readings.    Somehow  it  seems  to  have  got  in  it,  by  accident, 

exactly  the  qualities  best  suited  to  the  purpose ;  and  it  went 

*  last  night,  not  only  with  roars,  but  with  a  general  hilarity  and 
'  pleasure  that  I  have  never  seen  surpassed.'  *  From  this  night 
onward,  the  success  was  uninterrupted,  and  here  was  his  report 
to  me  from  Brighton  on  the  8th  of  November.    *  We  turned 

*  away  half  Dover  and  half  Hastings  and  half  Colchester  ;  and,  if 

*  you  can  believe  such  a  thing,  I  may  tell  you  that  in  round 

*  numbers  we  find  1000  stalls  already  taken  here  in  Brighton  ! 

*  I  left  Colchester  in  a  heavy  snow-storm.    To-day  it  is  so  warm 

*  here  that  I  can  hardly  bear  the  fire,  and  am  writing  with  the 

*  window  open  down  to  the  ground.    Last  night  I  had  a  most 

*  charming  audience  for  Copperfield^  with  a  delicacy  of  perception 
'  that  really  made  the  work  delightful.  It  is  very  pretty  to  see 
'  the  girls  and  women  generally,  in  the  matter  of  Dora ;  and 
'  everywhere  I  have  found  that  peculiar  personal  relation  between 

*  my  audience  and  myself  on  which  I  counted  most  when  I 

*  entered  on  this  enterprise.     Nickleby  continues  to  go  in  the 

*  wildest  manner.' 

A  storm  was  at  this  time  sweeping  round  the  coast,  and  while 
at  Dover  he  had  written  of  it  to  his  sister-in-law  (7  th  of  No- 
vember) :  *  The  bad  weather  has  not  in  the  least  touched  us,  and 


*  Of  his  former  manager  he  writes 
in  the  same  letter  :  *  I  miss  him  dread- 
'  fully.  The  sense  I  used  to  have  of 
*  compactness  and  comfort  about  me 
'  while  I  was  reading,  is  quite  gone  ; 
'  and  on  my  coming  out  for  the  ten 


*  minutes,  when  I  used  to  find  him 

*  always  ready  for  me  with  something 

*  cheerful  to  say,  it  is  forlorn.  .  .  Be- 

*  sides  which,  H.  and  all  the  rest  of 

*  them  are  always  somewhere,  and  he 

*  was  always  everywhere. ' 


$  VI.]  Second  Series  of  Readings.  299 

*  the  storm  was  most  magnificent  at  Dover.    All  the  great  side  of   ^^^^^  ' 

*  the  Lord  Warden  next  the  sea  had  to  be  emptied,  the  break  of  

A  storm. 

*  vne  waves  was  so  prodigious,  and  the  noise  so  utterly  con- 

*  founding.    The  sea  came  in  like  a  great  sky  of  immense  clouds, 

*  for  ever  breaking  suddenly  into  furious  rain ;  all  kinds  of  wreck 

*  were  washed  in,  among  other  things  a  very  pretty  brass-bound 

*  chest  being  thrown  about  like  a  feather.  .  .  .  The  unhappy 

*  Ostend  packet,  unable  to  get  in  or  go  back,  beat  about  the 

*  Channel  all  Tuesday  night,  and  until  noon  yesterday ;  when  I 

*  saw  her  come  in,  with  five  men  at  the  wheel,  a  picture  of 

*  misery  inconceivable.  .  .  The  effect  of  the  readings  at  Hastings 

*  and  Dover  really  seems  to  have  outdone  the  best  usual  impres- 

*  sion ;  and  at  Dover  they  wouldn't  go,  but  sat  applauding  like 

*  mad.    The  most  delicate  audience  I  have  seen  in  any  pro-  At  Canter- 

bury and 

*  vincial  place,  is  Canterbury '      an  intelligent  and  delightful  Dover. 

*  response  in  them,'  he  wrote  to  his  daughter,  '  like  the  touch  of 

*  a  beautiful  instrument ') ;  '  but  the  audience  with  the  greatest 

*  sense  of  humour,  certainly  is  Dover.    The  people  in  the  stalls 

*  set  the  example  of  laughing,  in  the  most  curiously  unreserved 

*  way ;  and  they  laughed  with  such  really  cordial  enjoyment, 

*  when  Squeers  read  the  boys'  letters,  that  the  contagion  extended 

*  to  me.  For,  one  couldn't  hear  them  without  laughing  too  ...  So, 

*  I  am  thankful  to  say,  all  goes  well,  and  the  recompense  for  the 

*  trouble  is  in  every  way  Great.' 

From  the  opposite  quarter  of  Berwick-on-Tweed  he  wrote 
again  in  the  midst  of  storm.  But  first  his  mention  of  Newcastle, 
which  he  had  also  taken  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh,  reading  two 
nights  there,  should  be  given.    *  At  Newcastle,  against  the  very 

*  heavy  expenses,  I  made  more  than  a  hundred  guineas  profit  A 

*  finer  audience  there  is  not  in  England,  and  I  suppose  them  to 

*  be  a  specially  earnest  people  ;  for,  while  they  can  laugh  till  they 

*  shake  the  roof,  they  have  a  very  unusual  sympathy  with  what  is 

*  pathetic  or  passionate.    An  extraordinary  thing  occurred  on  the 

*  second  night.    The  room  was  tremendously  crowded  and  my  Alarming 

*  gas-apparatus  fell  down.    There  was  a  terrible  wave  among  the 

*  people  for  an  instant,  and  God  knows  what  destruction  of  life 

*  a  rush  to  the  stairs  would  have  caused.    Fortunately  a  lady  in 


300 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  [book  VI 1 1. 


Berwick-  *  the  front  of  the  Stalls  ran  out  towards  me,  exactly  in  a  place 

ON-TWHED  : 

1861.  where  I  knew  that  the  whole  hall  could  see  her.  So  I  ad- 
*■  dressed  her,  laughing,  and  half-asked  and  half-ordered  her  to 
'  sit  down  again ;  and,  in  a  moment,  it  was  all  over.    But  the 

*  men  in  attendance  had  such  a  fearful  sense  of  what  might  have 

*  happened  (besides  the  real  danger  of  Fire)  that  they  positively 

*  shook  the  boards  I  stood  on,  with  their  trembling,  when  they 

*  came  up  to  put  things  right.    I  am  proud  to  record  that  the 

*  gas-man's  sentiment,  as  delivered  afterwards,  was,  "  The  more 

*  "  you  want  of  the  master,  the  more  you'll  find  in  him."  With 
compliment.  '  which  complimentary  homage,  and  with  the  wind  blowing  so 

'  that  I  can  hardly  hear  myself  write,  I  conclude.'  * 

It  was  still  blowing,  in  shape  of  a  gale  from  the  sea,  when,  an 
hour  before  the  reading,  he  wrote  from  the  King's  Arms  at 
Berwick-on-Tweed.    *  As  odd  and  out  of  the  way  a  place  to  be 

*  at,  it  appears  to  me,  as  ever  was  seen  !  And  such  a  ridiculous 
'  room  designed  for  me  to  read  in  !    An  immense  Corn  Ex« 

*  change,  made  of  glass  and  iron,  round,  dome-topp'd,  lofty, 

*  utterly  absurd  for  any  such  purpose,  and  full  of  thundering 

*  echoes  ;  with  a  little  lofty  crow's  nest  of  a  stone  gallery,  breast 

*  high,  deep  in  the  wall,  into  which  it  was  designed  to  put  

''me!    I  instantly  struck,  of  course ;  and  said  I  would  either 

residing  *  read  in  a  room  attached  to  this  house  (a  very  snug  one,  capable 
hall.         <  Qf  holding  500  people),  or  not  at  all.    Terrified  local  agents 

*  glowered,  but  fell  prostrate,  and  my  men  took  the  primitive 

*  A  sentence  or  two,  from  the  ac-  *  It  took  some  five  minutes  to  mend, 

count  written  to  his  daughter,  are  also  *  and  I  looked  on  with  my  hands  in 

worth  giving.     '  There  were   three  *  my  pockets  :  for  I  think  if  I  had 

*  great  galleries  crammed  to  the  roof,  *  turned  my  back  for  a  moment,  there 
'  and  a  high  steep  flight  of  stairs  ;  and  *  might  still  have  been  a  move.  My 

*  a  panic  must  have  destroyed  numbers  *  people  were  dreadfully  alarmed  — 

*  of  people.  .  .  A  lady  in  the  front  row  *  Boycott '  (the  gas-man)  '  in  particu- 

*  of  stalls  screamed,  and  ran  out  wildly  *  lar,  who  I  suppose  had  some  notion 
'  towards  me. . .  I  addressed  that  lady,  *  that  the  whole  place  might  have  taken 
'  laughing,  and  called  out  as  if  it  hap-  *  fire—  * '  but  there  stood  the  master, " 
'  pened  every  night—"  There's  no-  *  he  did  me  the  honour  to  say  after- 

*  "thing  the  matter  I  assure  you;  'wards,  in  addressing  the  rest,  "as 

*  *'  don't  be  alarmed  ;  pray  sit  down  *  "  cool  as  ever  I  see  him  a  lounging 

*  ««  "  and  she  sat  down  directly,  *  "  at  a  Railway  Station."  ' 

*  and  there  was  a  thunder  of  applause. 


y  VI.] 


Second  Series  of  Readings. 


*  accommodation  in  hand.    Ever  since,  I  am  alarmed  to  add,  the  Berwick- 

'  ON-TwEED : 

*  people  (who  besought  the  honour  of  the  visit)  have  been  coming 

*  in  numbers  quite  irreconcileable  with  the  appearance  of  the 

*  place,  and  what  is  to  be  the  end  I  do  not  know.    It  was  poor 

*  Arthur  Smith's  principle  that  a  town  on  the  way  paid  the  ex- 

*  penses  of  a  long  through-journey,  and  therefore  I  came.'  The 
Reading  paid  more  than  those  expenses. 

Enthusiastic  greeting  awaited  him  in  Edinburgh.    *  We  had  in  Scotland. 

*  the  hall  exactly  double  what  we  had  on  the  first  night  last  time. 

*  The  success  of  Copperfield  was  perfectly  unexampled.  Four 

*  great  rounds  of  applause  with  a  burst  of  cheering  at  the  end, 

*  and  every  point  taken  in  the  finest  manner.'  But  this  was 
nothing  to  what  befell  on  the  second  night,  when,  by  some 
mistake  of  the  local  agents,  the  tickets  issued  were  out  of  pro- 
portion to  the  space  available.    Writing  from  Glasgow  next  day 

(3rd  of  December)  he  described  the  scene.    *  Such  a  pouring  of  Over-issue 

of  ticlccts 

*  hundreds  into  a  place  already  full  to  the  throat,  such  indescribable 

*  confusion,  such  a  rending  and  tearing  of  dresses,  and  yet  such 

*  a  scene  of  good  humour  on  the  whole,  I  never  saw  the  faintest 

*  approach  to.    While  I  addressed  the  crowd  in  the  room,  G 

*  addressed  the  crowd  in  the  street.  Fifty  frantic  men  got  up  in 
'  all  parts  of  the  hall  and  addressed  me  all  at  once.    Other  frantic 

*  men  made  speeches  to  the  walls.    The  whole  B  family  were  Confusion 

and  good- 

*  borne  in  on  the  top  of  a  wave,  and  landed  with  their  faces  humour. 

*  against  the  front  of  the  platform.  I  read  with  the  platform 
'  crammed  with  people.    I  got  them  to  lie  down  upon  it,  and 

*  it  was  like  some  impossible  tableau  or  gigantic  pic-nic — one 

*  pretty  girl  in  full  dress,  lying  on  her  side  all  night,  holding  on 
'  to  one  of  the  legs  of  my  table  !    It  was  the  most  extraordinary 

*  sight    And  yet,  from  the  moment  I  began  to  the  moment  ot 

*  my  leaving  off,  they  never  missed  a  point,  and  they  ended  with 

*  a  burst  of  cheers.  .  .  .  The  expenditure  of  lungs  and  spirits  was 

*  (as  you  may  suppose)  rather  great ;  and  to  sleep  well  was  out  ot 

*  the  question.  I  am  therefore  rather  fagged  to-day ;  and  as  the 
'  hall  in  which  I  read  to-night  is  a  large  one,  I  must  make  my 

*  letter  a  short  one.  .  .  .  My  people  were  torn  to  ribbons  last 

*  night.    They  have  not  a  hat  among  them — and  scarcely  a  coat.' 


302 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


p:din-     He  came  home  for  his  Christmas  rest  by  way  of  Manchester,  and 

BURGH : 

i86t.  thus  spoke  of  the  reading  there  on  the  14th  of  December. 
'  Copperfield  in  the  Free  Trade  Hall  last  Saturday  was  really  a 
'  grand  scene.' 

Provinces  :     He  was  in  southcrn  latitudes  after  Christmas,  and  on  the  8th  of 
^  ^"     January  wrote  from  Torquay :  *We  are  now  in  the  region  of  small 
'  rooms,  and  therefore  this  trip  will  not  be  as  profitable  as  the 

*  long  one.    I  imagine  the  room  here  to  be  very  small.  Exeter 

*  I  know,  and  that  is  small  too.    I  am  very  much  used  up  on 

*  the  whole,  for  I  cannot  bear  this  moist  warm  climate.  It  would 
'  kill  me  very  soon.  And  I  have  now  got  to  the  point  of  taking 
'  so  much  out  of  myself  with  Copperfield  that  I  might  as  well  do 

Torquay.  '  Richard  Wardour  .  .  .  This  is  a  very  pretty  place — a  compound 
'  of  Hastings,  Tunbridge  Wells,  and  little  bits  of  the  hills  about 
'  Naples ;  but  I  met  four  respirators  as  I  came  up  from  the 
'  station,  and  three  pale  curates  without  them  who  seemed  in  a  bad 

*  way.'  They  had  been  not  bad  omens,  however.  The  success 
was  good,  at  both  Torquay  and  Exeter ;  and  he  closed  the  month, 
and  this  series  of  the  country  readings,  at  the  great  towns  of 
Liverpool  and  Chester.  '  The  beautiful  St.  George's  Hall  crowded 
'to  excess  last  night'  (28th  of  January  1862)  *and  numbers 

*  turned  away.    BriUiant  to  see  when  lighted  up,  and  for  a  read- 
LiverpooL    <  "j-^g  Simply  perfect    You  remember  that  a  Liverpool  audience 

*  is  usually  dull ;  but  they  put  me  on  my  mettle  last  night,  for  I 

*  never  saw  such  an  audience — no,  not  even  in  Edinburgh !  The 

*  agents  (alone,  and  of  course  without  any  reference  to  ready 
money  at  the  doors)  had  taken  for  the  two  readings  two 

*  hundred  pounds.'  But  as  the  end  approached  the  fatigues  had 
told  severely  on  him.  He  described  himself  sleeping  horribly, 
and  with  head  dazed  and  worn  by  gas  and  heat.  Rest,  before 
he  could  resume  at  the  St.  James's  Hall  in  March,  was  become 
an  absolute  necessity. 

London.  Two  brief  extracts  from  letters  of  the  dates  respectively  of  the 
8th  of  April  *  and  the  28th  of  June  will  sufficiently  describe  the 

*  The  letter  referred  also  to  the  *  ton's  death  is  a  shock  of  surprise  as 
death  of  his  American  friend  Professor  *  well  as  grief  to  me,  for  I  had  not 
Felton.     '  Your  mention  of  poor  Fel-     '  heard  a  word  j^bout  it.    Mr.  Fields 


§  VI.]  Second  Series  of  Readings, 


303 


London  readings.    *  The  money  returns  have  been  quite  astound-  London  : 

*  ing.  Think  of     190  a  night !  The  effect  of  Copperfield  exceeds  '■ — 

*  all  the  expectations  which  its  success  in  the  country  led  me  to 

*  form.    It  seems  to  take  people  entirely  by  surprise.    If  this  is 

*  not  new  to  you,  I  have  not  a  word  of  news.    The  rain  that 

*  raineth  every  day  seems  to  have  washed  news  away  or  got  it 
'  under  water.'    That  was  in  April.     In  June  he  wrote :  *  I 

*  finished  my  readings  on  Friday  night  to  an  enormous  hall — 

*  nearly  ^200.    The  success  has  been  throughout  complete.  It 

*  seems  almost  suicidal  to  leave  off  with  the  town  so  full,  but 

*  I  don't  like  to  depart  from  my  public  pledge.    A  man  from 

*  Australia  is  in  London  ready  to  pay     10,000  for  eight  months  Offer  from 

*  there.  If — 


It  was  an  If  that  troubled  him  for  some  time, 
and  led  to  agitating  discussion.  The  civil  war  having  closed 
America,  an  increase  made  upon  the  just-named  offer  tempted 
him  to  Australia.  He  tried  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  fancy 
that  he  should  thus  also  get  new  material  for  observation,  and  he 
went  so  far  as  to  plan  an  Uncommercial  Traveller  Upside  Down.* 


*  told  me  when  he  was  here  that  the 

*  effect  of  that  hotel  disaster  of  bad 

*  drinking  water  had  not  passed  away  ; 

*  so  I  suppose,  as  you  do,  that  he  sank 

*  under  it.    Poor  dear  Felton  !    It  is 

*  20  years  since  I  told  you  of  the  de. 

*  light  my  first  knowledge  of  him  gave 

*  me,  and  it  is  as  strongly  upon  me  to 

*  this  hour.     I  wish  our  ways  had 

*  crossed  a  little   oftener,  but  that 

*  would  not  have  made  it  better  for  us 

*  now,    Alas  !   alas  !  all  ways  have 

*  the  same  finger-post  at  the  head  of 

*  them,  and  at  every  turning  in  them.' 

*  I  give  the  letter  in  which  he  put 
the  scheme  formally  before  me,  after 
the  renewed  and  larger  offers  had  been 
submitted.    *  If  there  were  reasonable 

*  hope  and  promise,  I  could  make  up 
'  my  mind  to  go  to  Australia  and  get 
'  money.  I  would  not  accept  the 
'  Australian  people's  offer.    I  would 

*  take  no  money  from  them ;  would 

*  bind  myself  to  nothing  with  them  ; 

*  but  would  merely  make  them  my 


*  agents  at  such  and  such  a  per  cent- 

*  age,  and  go  and  read  there.  I  would 
'  take  some  man  of  literary  preten- 

*  sions  as  a  secretary  (Charles  Collins? 
'  What  think  you  ?)  and  with  his  aid  ' 
(he  afterwards  made  the  proposal  to 
his  old  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Beard) 
'  would  do,  for  All  the  Year  Round 

*  while   I  was  away,  The  Uncom- 

*  mercial  Traveller  Upside  Dov^m.  If 

*  the  notion  of  these  speculators  be 

*  anything  like  accurate,  I  should  come 

*  back  rich.    I  should  have  seen  a 

*  great  deal  of  novelty  to  boot.  I 

*  should  have  been  very  miserable  Case  for 

*  too.  .  .  Of  course  one  cannot  pos-  against 

^  Australia. 
'  sibly  count  upon  the  money  to  be 

*  realized  by  a  six  months'  absence, 

*  but  1 2, 000  is  supposed  to  be  a  low 
'  estimate.    Mr.  S.  brought  me  letters 

*  from  members  of  the  legislature, 

*  newspaper  editors,   and  the  like, 

*  exhorting  me  to  come,  saying  how 

*  much  the  people  talk  of  me,  and 

*  dwelling  on  the  kind  of  reception 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


It  is  however  very  doubtful  if  such  a  scheme  would  have  been 
entertained  for  a  moment,  but  for  the  unwonted  difficulties 
of  invention  that  were  now  found  to  beset  a  twenty-number 
story.  Such  a  story  had  lately  been  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  just 
chosen  the  title  for  it  {^Our  Mutual  Friend) but  still  he  halted 
and  hesitated  sorely.  *  If  it  was  not '  (he  wrote  on  the  5th  of 
October  1862)  'for  the  hope  of  a  gain  that  would  make  me  more 

*  independent  of  the  worst,  I  could  not  look  the  travel  and 

*  absence  and  exertion  in  the  face.    I  know  perfectly  well  before- 

*  hand  how  unspeakably  wretched  I  should  be.     But  these 

*  renewed  and  larger  offers  tempt  me.  I  can  force  myself  to 
'  go  aboard  a  ship,  and  I  can  force  myself  to  do  at  that  reading- 

*  desk  what  I  have  done  a  hundred  times ;  but  whether,  with  all 

*  this  unsettled  fluctuating  distress  in  my  mind,  I  could  force  an 

*  original  book  out  of  it,  is  another  question.'  On  the  22nd,  still 
striving  hard  to  find  reasons  to  cope  with  the  all  but  irresistible 
arguments  against  any  such  adventure,  which  indeed,  with  every- 
thing that  then  surrounded  him,  would  have  been  little  short  of 
madness,  he  thus  stated  his  experience  of  his  two  circuits  of 
public  reading.    *  Remember  that  at  home  here  the  thing  has 

*  never  missed  fire,  but  invariably  does  more  the  second  time 

*  than  it  did  the  first  j  and  also  that  I  have  got  so  used  to  it,  and 

*  have  worked  so  hard  at  it,  as  to  get  out  of  it  more  than  I  ever 

*  thought  was  in  it  for  that  purpose.    I  think  all  the  probabilities 

*  for  such  a  country  as  Australia  are  immense.'  The  terrible 
difficulty  was  that  the  home  argument  struck  both  ways.    '  If  I 


*  that  would  await  me.     No  doubt 

*  this  is  so,  and  of  course  a  great  deal 
'  of  curious  experience  for  after  use 

*  would  be  gained  over  and  above  the 

*  money.    Being  my  own  master  too, 

*  I  could  **  work  "  myself  more  deli- 
'  cately  than  if  I  bound  myself  for 

*  money  beforehand.  A  few  years 
'  hence,  if  all   other  circumstances 

*  were  the  same,  I  might  not  be  so 

*  well  fitted  for  the  excessive  wear  and 

*  tear.    This  is  about  the  whole  case. 

*  But  pray  do  not  suppose  that  I  am 

*  in  my  own  mind  favourable  to  going, 


*  or  that  I  have  any  fancy  for  going.' 
That  was  late  in  October.  From 
Paris  in  November  (1862),  he  wrote  : 
'  I  mentioned  the  question  to  Bulwer 
'  when  he  dined  with  us  here  last 

*  Sunday,  and  he  was  all  for  going. 
'  He  said  that  not  only  did  he  think 
'  the  whole  population  would  go  to 

*  the  Readings,  but  that  the  country 

*  would  strike  me  in  some  quite  new 

*  aspect  for  a  Book  ;  and  that  wonders 
'  might  be  done  with  such  book  in 
'  the  way  of  profit,  over  there  as  wel| 
'  as  here.' 


§  VI.]  Second  Series  of  Readings.  305 

*  were  to  go  it  would  be  a  penance  and  a  misery,  and  I  dread  the  London  : 

1862. 

*  thought  more  than  I  can  possibly  express.    The  domestic  life  

*  of  the  Readings  is  all  but  intolerable  to  me  when  I  am  away 

*  for  a  few  weeks  at  a  time  merely,  and  what  would  it  be  

On  the  other  hand  it  was  also  a  thought  of  home,  far  beyond  the 
mere  personal  loss  or  gain  of  it,  that  made  him  willing  still  to 
risk  even  so  much  misery  and  penance  ;  and  he  had  a  fancy  that 
it  might  be  possible  to  take  his  eldest  daughter  with  him.    *  It  is 

*  useless  and  needless  for  me  to  say  what  the  conflict  in  my  own 

*  mind  is.    How  painfully  unwilling  I  am  to  go,  and  yet  how 

*  painfully  sensible  that  perhaps  I  ought  to  go — with  all  the  ^^[1]^^^^ 

*  hands  upon  my  skirts  that  I  cannot  fail  to  feel  and  see  there, 

*  whenever  I  look  round.    It  is  a  struggle  of  no  common  sort, 

*  as  you  will  suppose,  you  who  know  the  circumstances  of  the 

*  struggles'  It  closed  at  once  when  he  clearly  saw  that  to  take 
any  of  his  family  with  him,  and  make  satisfactory  arrangement  for 
the  rest  during  such  an  absence,  would  be  impossible.  By  this  time 
also  he  began  to  find  his  way  to  the  new  story,  and  better  hopes 
and  spirits  had  returned. 

In  January  1863  he  had  taken  his  daughter  and  his  sister-in-  ^jg^^^"* 
law  to  Paris,  and  he  read  twice  at  the  Embassy  in  behalf  of  the 
British  Charitable  Fund,  the  success  being  such  that  he  consented 
to  read  twice  again.*    He  passed  his  birthday  of  that  year  (the 
7  th  of  the  following  month)  at  Arras.    *  You  will  remember  me 

*  to-day,  I  know.    Thanks  for  it.    An  odd  birthday,  but  I  am  as  ^^f^^ 

*  little  out  of  heart  as  you  would  have  me  be — floored  now  and 

*  then,  but  coming  up  again  at  the  call  of  Time.  I  wanted  to  see 
'  this  town,  birthplace  of  our  amiable  Sea  Green  '  (Robespierre)  ; 

*  and  I  find  a  Grande  Place  so  very  remarkable  and  picturesque 

*  that  it  is  astonishing  how  people  miss  it.   Here  too  I  found,  in  a 

*  bye-country  place  just  near,  a  Fair  going  on,  with  a  Religious 

*  Richardson's  in  it — Theatre  Religieux — "  donnant  six  fois 


*  A  person  present  thus  described  *  hours'  storm  of  excitement  and  plea-  Reading  at 

(ist  of  February  1863)  the  second  'sure.    They  actually  murmured  and 

night  to  Miss  Dickens.    '  No  one  can  *  applauded   right  away   into  their 

'  imagine  the  scene  of  last  Friday  *  carriages  and  down  the  street.' 
*  night  at  the  Embassy  .    .  a  two 

VOL.  II.  X 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  vill. 


*  "par  jour,  Thistoire  de  la  Croix  en  tableaux  vivants,  depuis  la 
'  "naissance  de  notre  Seigneur  jusqu'k  son  sepulture.  Aussi 

*  "  rimmolation  d'Isaac,  par  son  pbre  Abraham."    It  was  just 

*  before  nightfall  when  I  came  upon  it ;  and  one  of  the  three 
'  wise  men  was  up  to  his  eyes  in  lamp  oil,  hanging  the  moderators. 
'  A  woman  in  blue  and  fleshings  (whether  an  angel  or  Joseph's 

*  wife  I  don't  know)  was  addressing  the  crowd  through  an 

*  enormous  speaking-trumpet ;  and  a  very  small  boy  with  a  pro- 
'  perty  lamb  (I  leave  you  to  judge  who  he  was)  was  standing  on 

*  his  head  on  a  barrel-organ.'  Returning  to  England  by  Boulogne 
in  the  same  year,  as  he  stepped  into  the  Folkestone  boat  he 
encountered  a  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Manby  (in  recording  a  trait  of 
character  so  pleasing  and  honourable  it  is  not  necessary  that  I 
should  suppress  the  name),  also  passing  over  to  England.  *  Taking 
'  leave  of  Manby  was  a  shabby  man  of  whom  I  had  some  remem- 
'  brance,  but  whom  I  could  not  get  into  his  place  in  my  mind. 
'  Noticing  when  we  stood  out  of  the  harbour  that  he  was  on  the 

*  brink  of  the  pier,  waving  his  hat  in  a  desolate  manner,  I  said  to 

*  Manby,  "  Surely  I  know  that  man."  "  I  should  think  you 

*  "  did,"  said  he  ;  "  Hudson  !  "  He  is  living — ^just  living — at 
'  Paris,  and  Manby  had  brought  him  on.  He  said  to  Manby  at 
'  parting,  "  I  shall  not  have  a  good  dinner  again,  till  you  come 
'  "  back."    I  asked  Manby  why  he  stuck  to  him  ?    He  said, 

*  Because  he  (Hudson)  had  so  many  people  in  his  power,  and 
'  had  held  his  peace ;  and  because  he  (Manby)  saw  so  many 

*  Notabilities  grand  with  him  now,  who  were  always  grovelling 
'  for  "  shares  "  in  the  days  of  his  grandeur.' 

Upon  arrival  in  London  the  second  series  of  the  readings 
was  brought  to  a  close. 


§  Vll.j 


Third  Series  of  Readings, 


307 


VII. 

THIRD  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 
1864^1867. 

The  sudden  death  of  Thackeray  on  the  Christmas  eve  of  1863  London: 
was  a  painful  shock  to  Dickens.    It  would  not  become  me  to  — — 
speak,  when  he  has  himself  spoken,  of  his  relations  with  so  great 
a  writer  and  so  old  a  friend. 

*  I  saw  him  first,  nearly  twenty-eight  years  ago,  when  he  pro-  Death  of 
'  posed  to  become  the  illustrator  of  my  earliest  book.    I  saw  him 

*  last,*  shortly  before  Christmas,  at  the  Athenaeum  Club,  when  he 

*  told  me  that  he  had  been  in  bed  three  days  .  .  .  and  that  he 

*  had  it  in  his  mind  to  try  a  new  remedy  which  he  laughingly 

*  described.    He  was  cheerful,  and  looked  very  bright.    In  the 

*  night  of  that  day  week,  he  died.    The  long  interval  between 

*  these  two  periods  is  marked  in  my  remembrance  of  him  by 

*  many  occasions  when  he  was  extremely  humorous,  when  he  was 

*  irresistibly  extravagant,  when  he  was  softened  and  serious,  when 

*  he  was  charming  with  children.  .  .  No  one  can  be  surer  than  I, 

*  of  the  greatness  and  goodness  of  his  heart.  .  .  In  no  place 

*  should  I  take  it  upon  myself  at  this  time  to  discourse  of  his 

*  books,  of  his  refined  knowledge  of  character,  of  his  subtle 

*  acquaintance  with  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature,  of  his 

*  delightful  playfulness  as  an  essayist,  of  his  quaint  and  touching 

*  ballads,  of  his  mastery  over  the  English  language.  .  .  But 

*  before  me  lies  all  that  he  had  written  of  his  latest  story  .  .  .  and 


*  There  had  been  some  estrange- 
ment between  them  since  the  autumn 
of  1858,  hardly  now  worth  mention 
even  in  a  note.  Thackeray,  justly  in- 
dignant at  a  published  description  of 
himself  by  the  member  of  a  club  to 
which  both  he  and  Dickens  belonged, 
referred  it  to  the  Committee,  who 
decided  to  expel  the  writer.  Dickens, 
thinking  expulsion  too  harsh  a  penalty 


for  an  offence  thoughtlessly  given,  and,  Estrat 
as  far  as  might  be,  manfully  atoned  mcnt. 
for  by  withdrawal  and  regret,  inter- 
posed to  avert  that  extremity.  Thacke- 
ray resented  the  interference,  and 
Dickens  was  justly  hurt  by  the  manner 
in  which  he  did  so.  Neither  was 
wholly  right,  nor  was  either  altogetlicr 
in  the  wrong. 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  Vill. 


London  :  <  the  pain  I  have  felt  in  perusing  it  has  not  been  deeper  than  the 
  conviction  that  he  was  in  the  healthiest  vigour  of  his  powers 

Dickens  on 

Thackeray.  <  when  he  worked  on  this  last  labour.  .  .  The  last  words  he 

*  corrected  in  print  were  "  And  my  heart  throbbed  with  an 

*  "  exquisite  bliss/'  God  grant  that  on  that  Christmas  Eve  when 
'  he  laid  his  head  back  on  his  pillow  and  threw  up  his  arms  as  he 

*  had  been  wont  to  do  when  very  weary,  some  consciousness  of 
'  duty  done,  and  of  Christian  hope  throughout  life  humbly 
'  cherished,  may  have  caused  his  own  heart  so  to  throb,  when  he 

*  passed  away  to  his  Redeemer's  rest.  He  was  found  peacefully 
'  lying  as  above  described,  composed,  undisturbed,  and  to  all 

*  appearance  asleep.'  * 

Other  griefs  were  with  Dickens  at  this  time,  and  close  upon 
them  came  the  too  certain  evidence  that  his  own  health  was 
yielding  to  the  overstrain  which  had  been  placed  upon  it  by  the 
occurrences  and  anxieties  of  the  few  preceding  years.  His 

Mother's  mothcr,  whose  infirm  health  had  been  tending  for  more  than  two 
years  to  the  close,  died  in  September  1863;  and  on  his  own 
birthday  in  the  following  February  he  had  tidings  of  the  death  of 
his  second  son  Walter,  on  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  in  the 
officers'  hospital  at  Calcutta;  to  which  he  had  been  sent  up 
invalided   from  his   station,  on  his  way  home.     He  was  a 

Death        lieutenant  in  the  26th  Native  Infantry  regiment,  and  had  been 

cf  son 

v/aiter.  doing  duty  with  the  42nd  Highlanders.  In  1853  his  father  had 
thus  written  to  the  youth's  godfather,  Walter  Savage  Landor; 

*  Walter  is  a  very  good  boy,  and  comes  home  from  school  with 

*  honorable  commendation  and  a  prize  into  the  bargain.  He 

*  never  gets  into  trouble,  for  he  is  a  great  favourite  with  the  whole 

*  house  and  one  of  the  most  amiable  boys  in  the  boy-world.  He 

*  comes  out  on  birthdays  in  a  blaze  of  shirt  pin.'  The  pin  was  a 
present  from  Landor ;  to  whom  three  years  later,  when  the  boy 
had  obtained  his  cadetship  through  the  kindness  of  Miss  Coutts, 
Dickens  wrote  again.  '  Walter  has  done  extremely  well  at  school ; 
'  has  brought  home  a  prize  in  triumph ;  and  will  be  eligible  to 

"  go  up "  for  his  India  examination  soon  after  next  Easter, 

*  From  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  February  1S64. 


§  VII.] 


Third  Series  of  Readings. 


309 


'  Having  a  direct  appointment  he  will  probably  be  sent  out  soon  Lo  ndon  ; 

*  after  he  has  passed,  and  so  will  fall  into  that  strange  life  "  up  • 

*  "  the  country  "  before  he  well  knows  he  is  alive,  or  what  life  is — 

*  which  indeed  seems  to  be  rather  an  advanced  state  of  know- 

*  ledge.'  If  he  had  lived  another  month  he  would  have  reached 
his  twenty-third  year,  and  perhaps  not  then  the  advanced  state  of 
knowledge  his  father  speaks  of  But,  never  forfeiting  his  claim  to 
those  kindly  paternal  words,  he  had  the  goodness  and  simplicity 
of  boyhood  to  the  close. 

Dickens  had  at  this  time  begun  his  last  story  in   twenty  ^J*^^^^ 
numbers,  and  my  next  chapter  will  show  through  what  unwonted  ^^'^^ 
troubles,  in  this  and  the  following  year,  he  had  to  fight  his  way. 
What  otherwise  during  its  progress  chiefly  interested  him,  was  the 
enterprise  of  Mr.  Fechter  at  the  Lyceum,  of  which  he  had  become 
the  lessee ;  and  Dickens  was  moved  to  this  quite  as  much  by 
generous  sympathy  with  the  difficulties  of  such  a  position  to  an 
artist  who  was  not  an  Englishman,  as  by  genuine  admiration  of 
Mr.  Fechter's  acting.    He  became  his  helper  in  disputes,  adviser  Jjf 
on  literary  points,  referee  in  matters  of  management ;  and  for  meS?^" 
some  years  no  face  was  more  familiar  than  the  French  comedian's 
at  Gadshill  or  in  the  office  of  his  journal.    But  theatres  and  their 
affairs  are  things  of  a  season,  and  even  Dickens's  whim  and 
humour  will  not  revive  for  us  any  interest  in  these.    No  bad 
example,  however,  of  the  difficulties  in  which  a  French  actor  may 
find  himself  with  English  playwrights,  will  appear  in  a  few 
amusing  words  from  one  of  his  letters  about  a  piece  played  at  the 
Princess's  before  the  Lyceum  management  was  taken  in  hand. 

'  I  have  been  cautioning  Fechter  about  the  play  whereof  he  Revisiivg 

*  gave  the  plot  and  scenes  to  B ;  and  out  of  which  I  have  struck 
'  some  enormities,  my  account  of  which  will  (I  think)  amuse  you. 

*  It  has  one  of  the  best  first  acts  I  ever  saw ;  but  if  he  can  do 

*  much  with  the  last  two,  not  to  say  three,  there  are  resources  in 

*  his  art  that  /  know  nothing  about.    When  I  went  over  the  play 

*  this  day  week,  he  was  at  least  20  minutes,  in  a  boat,  in  the  last 

*  scene,  discussing  with  another  gentleman  (also  in  the  boat) 

*  whether  he  should  kill  him  or  not ;  after  which  the  gentleman 
'  dived  overboard  and  swam  for  it.    Also,  in  the  most  important 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London ; 
1865. 


Sorrowful 
New  Year. 


Lameness. 
Post,  Book 
xi.  §  3. 


Over-con- 
fidence. 


*  and  dangerous  parts  of  the  play,  there  was  a  young  person  of  the 

*  name  of  Pickles  who  was  constantly  being  mentioned  by  name, 

*  in  conjunction  with  the  powers  of  light  or  darkness  ;  as,  "  Great 
'"Heaven!  Pickles  By  Hell, 'tis  Pickles !"—"  Pickles  ?  a 
'    thousand  Devils  !      "  Distraction !  Pickles  ?  " ' 

The  old  year  ended  and  the  new  one  opened  sadly  enough. 
The  death  of  Leech  in  November  affected  Dickens  very  much,* 
and  a  severe  attack  of  illness  in  February  put  a  broad  mark 
between  his  past  life  and  what  remained  to  him  of  the  future. 
The  lameness  now  began  in  his  left  foot  which  never  afterwards 
wholly  left  him,  which  was  attended  by  great  suffering,  and  which 
baffled  experienced  physicians.  He  had  persisted  in  his  ordinary 
exercise  during  heavy  snow-storms,  and  to  the  last  he  had  the 
fancy  that  the  illness  was  merely  local.  But  that  this  was  an  error 
is  now  certain  ;  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  if  the  nervous 
danger  and  disturbance  it  implied  had  been  correctly  appreciated 
at  the  time,  its  warning  might  have  been  of  priceless  value  to 
Dickens.  Unhappily  he  never  thought  of  husbanding  his  strength 
except  for  the  purpose  of  making  fresh  demands  upon  it,  and  it 
was  for  this  he  took  a  brief  holiday  in  France  during  the  summer. 

*  Before  I  went  away,'  he  wrote  to  his  daughter,  '  I  had  certainly 

*  worked  myself  into  a  damaged  state.    But  the  moment  I  got 


Charles 

Wentworth 

Dilke. 


*  Writing  to  me  three  months  be- 
fore, he  spoke  of  the  death  of  one 
whom  he  had  known  from  his  boyhood 
{ante,  i.  22-3)  and  with  whom  he  had 
fought  unsuccessfully  for  some  years 
against  the  management  of  the  Literary 
Fund.  *  Poor  Dilke  !  I  am  very  sorry 
'  that  the  capital  old  stout-hearted 
*  man  is  dead.'  Sorrow  may  also  be 
expressed  that  no  adequate  record 
should  remain  of  a  career  which  for 
steadfast  purpose,  conscientious  main- 
tenance of  opinion,  and  pursuit  of 
public  objects  with  disregard  of  self, 
was  one  of  very  high  example.  So 
averse  was  Mr,  Dilke  to  every  kind  of 
display  that  his  name  appears  to  none 
of  the  literary  investigations  which 
were  conducted  by  him  with  an  acute- 


ness  wonderful  as  his  industry,  and  it 
was  in  accordance  with  his  express  in- 
structions that  the  literary  journal 
which  his  energy  and  self-denial  had 
established  kept  silence  respecting  him 
at  his  death. — Since  that  note  was 
written  in  1873,  tribute  in  the  most 
durable  form  has  been  affectionately 
paid  to  Mr.  Dilke's  memory  by  his 
grandson,  Sir  Charles  Dilke,  who  has 
collected  some  masterly  specimens  of 
his  critical  handling  of  questions  that 
will  always  have  imperishable  inte- 
rest for  students  of  English  literature, 
and  has  prefixed  a  memoir,  brief  yet 
sufficient  for  its  purpose.  Character 
is  the  salt  that  saves  books  and  men, 
and  it  is  on  every  page  of  Papers  0/  a 
Critic.  1875. 


§  VII.] 


Third  Series  of  Readings. 


3^1 


*  away,  I  began,  thank  God,  to  get  well.    I  hope  to  profit  by  this  London: 

1865. 

*  experience,  and  to  make  future  dashes  from  my  desk  before 

*  I  want  them.'    At  his  return  he  was  in  the  terrible  railway 
accident  at  Staplehurst,  on  a  day  *  which  proved  afterwards  more  Fatal  anni- 

•'  ^  versary. 

fatal  to  him ;  and  it  was  with  shaken  nerves  but  unsubdued  ^"^^^  366-7. 
energy  he  resumed  the  labour  to  be  presently  described.  He  was 
beset  by  nervous  apprehensions  which  the  accident  had  caused  to 
himself,  not  lessened  by  his  generous  anxiety  to  assuage  the 
severer  sufferings  inflicted  by  it  on  others  ;  his  foot  also  troubled 
him  more  or  less  throughout  the  autumn ;  f  and  that  he  should 
nevertheless  have  determined,  on  the  close  of  his  book,  to  under- 
take a  series  of  readings  involving  greater  strain  and  fatigue  than 
any  hitherto,  was  a  startling  circumstance.  He  had  perhaps 
become  conscious,  without  owning  it  even  to  himself,  that  for 
exertion  of  this  kind  the  time  left  him  was  short ;  but,  whatever  New  Read- 
pressed  him  on,  his  task  of  the  next  three  years,  self-imposed,  was  taken."^^"^ 
to  make  the  most  money  in  the  shortest  time  without  any  regard 
to  the  physical  labour  to  be  undergone.  The  very  letter  an- 
nouncing his  new  engagement  shows  how  entirely  unfit  he  was  to 
enter  upon  it 

*  For  some  time,'  he  wrote  at  the  end  of  February  1866,  *I 


*  One  day  before,  the  8th  of  June 
1865,  his  old  friend  Sir  Joseph  Paxton 
had  breathed  his  last. 

t  Here  are  allusions  to  it  at  that 
timg.  '  I  have  got  a  boot  on  to-day — 

*  made  on  an  Otranto  scale,  but  really 

*  not  very  discernible  from  its  ordinary 

*  sized  companion.*  After  a  few  days' 
holiday :    '  I  began  to  feel  my  foot 

*  stronger  the  moment  I  breathed  the 

*  sea  air.    Still,  during  the  ten  days  I 

*  have  been  aw^ay,  I  have  never  been 

*  able  to  wear  a  boot  after  four  or  five 

*  in  the  afternoon,  but  have  passed  all 

*  the  evenings  vnth  the  foot  up,  and 

*  nothing  on  it    I  am  burnt  brown 

*  and  have  walked  by  the  sea  per- 

*  petually,  yet  I  feel  certain  that  if  I 

*  wore  a  boot  this  evening,  I  should  be 

*  taken  with  those  torments  again  be- 


*  fore  the  night  was  out.'  This  last 
letter  ended  thus  :  '  As  a  relief  to  my 

*  late  dismal  letters,  I  send  you  the 

'  newest  American  story.  Backwoods  p.ackwoods 
'  Doctor  is  called  in  to  the  little  boy  Doctor. 

*  of  a  woman-settler.  Stares  at  the 
'  child  some  time  through  a  pair  of 

*  spectacles.  Ultimately  takes  them 
'  off,  and  says  to  the  mother  :  "  Wa'al 
'  "  marm,  this  is   small-pox.  'Tis 

*  '*  marm,  small-pox.    But  I  am  not 

*  **  posted  up  in  pustuls,  and  I  do  not 

*  *'  know  as  I  could  bring  him  along 

*  "  slick  through  it.    But  I'll  tell  you 

*  **  wa'at  I  can  do,  marm  : — I  can 
'  **  send  him  a  draft  as  will  certainly 

*  *'  put  him  into  a  most  etamal  fit, 

*  **  and  I  am  almighty  smart  at  fits, 

*  **  and  we  might  git  round  Old  Grisly 
'  "  that  way."  ' 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  Vlll. 


*  have  been  very  unwell.    F.  B.  wrote  me  word  that  with  such  a 

*  pulse  as  I  described,  an  examination  of  the  heart  was  absolutely 

*  necessary.    "  Want  of  muscular  power  in  the  heart,"  B  said. 

*  "  Only  remarkable  irritability  of  the  heart,"  said  Doctor  Brinton 

*  of  Brook-street,  who  had  been  called  in  to  consultation.    I  was 

*  not  disconcerted  ;  for  I  knew  well  beforehand  that  the  effect 

*  could  not  possibly  be  without  the  one  cause  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
'  of  some  degeneration  of  some  function  of  the  heart.  Of  course 
'  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  suppose  that  all  my  work  can  have  been 
'  achieved  without  some  penalty,  and  I  have  noticed  for  some  time 

*  a  decided  change  in  my  buoyancy  and  hopefulness — in  other 

*  words,  in  my  usual  "  tone."    But  tonics  have  already  brought 

*  me  round.    So  I  have  accepted  an  offer,  from  Chappells  of 

*  Bond-street,  of  ;^5o  a  night  for  thirty  nights  to  read  in 

*  "  England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  or  Paris ; "  they  undertaking  all 

*  the  business,  paying  all  personal  expenses,  travelling  and  other- 

*  wise,  of  myself,  John  *  (his  office  servant),  *and  my  gasman  ;  and 

*  making  what  they  can  of  it.    I  begin,  I  believe,  in  Liverpool  on 

*  the  Thursday  in  Easter  week,  and  then  come  to  London.    I  am 

*  going  to  read  at  Cheltenham  (on  my  own  account)  on  the  23rd 

*  and  24th  of  this  month,  staying  with  Macready  of  course.' 

The  arrangement  of  this  series  of  Readings  differed  from  those 
of  its  predecessors  in  relieving  Dickens  from  every  anxiety  except 
of  the  reading  itself ;  but,  by  such  rapid  and  repeated  change  of 
nights  at  distant  places  as  kept  him  almost  wholly  in  a  railway 
carriage  when  not  at  the  reading-desk  or  in  bed,  it  added 
enormously  to  the  physical  fatigue.  He  would  read  at  St.  James's 
Hall  in  London  one  night,  and  at  Bradford  the  next.  He  would 
read  in  Edinburgh,  go  on  to  Glasgow  and  to  Aberdeen,  then 
come  back  to  Glasgow,  read  again  in  Edinburgh,  strike  off  to 
Manchester,  come  back  to  St.  James's  Hall  once  more,  and  begin 
the  same  round  again.  It  was  labour  that  must  in  time  have 
broken  down  the  strongest  man,  and  what  Dickens  was  when  he 
assumed  it  we  have  seen. 

He  did  not  himself  admit  a  shadow  of  misgiving.    *  As  to  the 

*  readings  '  (nth  of  March),  '  all  I  have  to  do  is,  to  take  in  my 

*  book  and  read,  at  the  appointa  1  place  and  hour,  and  come  ou 


§  VII.]  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


313 


*  again.    All  the  business  of  every  kind,  is  done  by  Chappells.   ^^^^^^  ' 

*  They  take  John  and  my  other  man,  merely  for  my  convenience. 

*  I  have  no  more  to  do  with  any  detail  whatever,  than  you  have. 

*  They  transact  all  the  business  at  their  own  cost,  and  on  their 
'  own  responsibility.  I  think  they  are  disposed  to  do  it  in  a  very 
'  good  spirit,  because,  whereas  the  original  proposition  was  for 

*  thirty  readings  "  in  England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  or  Paris,"  they 

*  "wrote  out  their  agreement  "in  London,  the  Provinces,  or  else- 

*  "where  as  you  and  we  may  agree"    For  this  they  pay     1500  in 

*  three  sums  :  £$00  on  beginning,  ;^5oo  on  the  fifteenth  Reading, 

*  jCS^o  at  the  close.    Every  charge  of  every  kind,  they  pay 

*  besides.  I  rely  for  mere  curiosity  on  Doctor  Marigold  (I  am 
'  going  to  begin  with  him  in  Liverpool,  and  at  St.  James's  Hall). 
'  I  have  got  hin  up  with  immense  pains,  and  should  like  to  give 

*  you  a  notion  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  him.' 

The  success  everywhere  went  far  beyond  even  the  former 
successes.  A  single  night  at  Manchester,  when  eight  hundred 
stalls  were  let,  two  thousand  five  hundred  and  sixty-five  people 
admitted,  and  the  receipts  amounted  to  more  than  three  hundred 
pounds,  was  followed  in  nearly  the  same  proportion  by  all  the 
greater  towns ;  and  on  the  20th  of  April  the  outlay  for  the  entire  Success  be- 
venture  was  paid,  leaving  all  that  remained,  to  the  middle  of  the 
month  of  June,  sheer  profit.  '  I  came  back  last  Sunday,'  he 
wrote  on  the  30th  of  May,  *  with  my  last  country  piece  of  work 

*  for  this  time  done.    Everywhere  the  success  has  been  the  same. 

*  St.  James's  Hall  last  night  was  quite  a  splendid  spectacle.  Two 

*  more  Tuesdays  there,  and  I  shall  retire  into  private  life.    I  have 

*  only  been  able  to  get  to  Gadshill  once  since  I  left  it,  and  that 

*  was  the  day  before  yesterday.' 

One  memorable  evening  he  had  passed  at  my  house  in  the  Memorable 
interval,  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Carlyle  for  the  last  time.    Her  sudden  2nd"Aprii. 
death  followed  shortly  after,  and  near  the  close  of  April  he  had  ' 
thus  written  to  me  from  Liverpool.    '  It  was  a  terrible  shock  to 

*  me,  and  poor  dear  Carlyle  has  been  in  my  mind  ever  since. 
'  How  often  I  have  thought  of  the  unfinished  novel.    No  one 

*  now  to  finish  it    None  of  the  writing  women  come  near  her  at 
all.'    This  was  an  allusion  to  what  had  passed  at  their  meeting. 


314 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


London  :  It  was  OH  the  sccond  of  April,  the  day  when  Mr.  Carlyle  had 
 delivered  his  inaugural  address  as  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh 

Rector  University,  and  a  couple  of  ardent  words  from  Professor  Tyndall 
had  told  her  of  the  triumph  just  before  dinner.  She  came  to  us 
flourishing  the  telegram  in  her  hand,  and  the  radiance  of  her 
enjoyment  of  it  was  upon  her  all  the  night.  Among  other  things 
she  gave  Dickens  the  subject  for  a  novel,  from  what  she  had  her- 
self observed  at  the  outside  of  a  house  in  her  street ;  of  which  the 
various  incidents  were  drawn  from  the  condition  of  its  blinds  and 
curtains,  the  costumes  visible  at  its  windows,  the  cabs  at  its  door, 
its  visitors  admitted  or  rejected,  its  articles  of  furniture  delivered 
or  carried  away ;  and  the  subtle  serious  humour  of  it  all,  the 
truth  in  trifling  bits  of  character,  and  the  gradual  progress  into  a 
half-romantic  interest,  had  enchanted  the  skilled  novelist.  She 
was  well  into  the  second  volume  of  her  small  romance  before  she 
left,  being  as  far  as  her  observation  then  had  taken  her ;  but  in  a 
few  days  exciting  incidents  were  expected,  the  denouement  could 
not  be  far  ofl",  and  Dickens  was  to  have  it  when  they  met  again. 

Mrs.  Car-  Yet  it  was  to  something  far  other  than  this  amusing  little  fancy 
his  thoughts  had  carried  him,  when  he  wrote  of  no  one  being 
capable  to  finish  what  she  might  have  begun.  In  greater  things 
this  was  still  more  true.  None  could  doubt  it  who  had  come 
within  the  fascinating  influence  of  that  sweet  and  noble  nature. 
With  some  of  the  highest  gifts  of  intellect,  and  the  charm  of  a 
most  varied  knowledge  of  books  and  things,  there  was  something 

*  beyond,  beyond.'  No  one  who  knew  Mrs.  Carlyle  could  replace 
her  loss  when  she  had  passed  away. 

The  same  letter  which  told  of  his  uninterrupted  success  to  the 
last,  told  me  also  that  he  had  a  heavy  cold  upon  him  and  was 
*•  very  tired  and  depressed.'  Some  weeks  before  the  first  batch  of 
readings  closed,  Messrs.  Chappell  had  already  tempted  him  with 
an  offer  for  fifty  more  nights  to  begin  at  Christmas,  for  which  he 
meant,  as  he  then  said,  to  ask  them  seventy  pounds  a  night.  '  It 
'  would  be  unreasonable  to  ask  anything  now  on  the  ground  of 

*  the  extent  of  the  late  success,  but  I  am  bound  to  look  to  myself 

*  for  the  future.    The  ChappellS  are  speculators,  though  of  the 

*  worthiest  and  most  honourable  kind.    They  make  some  bad 


Offer  for 
more  Read- 
ings. 


§  VII.] 


Third  Series  of  Readings. 


315 


*  speculations,  and  have  made  a  very  good  one  in  this  case,  and  PRovmcEs: 

*  will  set  this  against  those.    I  told  them  when  we  agreed  :  "  I  ~  — 

*  "  offer  these  thirty  Readings  to  you  at  fifty  pounds  a  night, 

*  because  I  know  perfectly  well  beforehand  that  no  one  in  your 

*  "  business  has  the  least  idea  of  their  real  worth,  and  I  wish  to 

*"  prove  it."    The  sum  taken  is  /'4720.'    The  result  of  the  Result  of 

^  ^i-/  ^  ^      ^  the  last 

fresh  negotiation,  though  not  completed  until  the  beginning  of  Readings 
August,  may  be  at  once  described.    *  Chappell  instantly  accepts 

*  my  proposal  of  forty  nights  at  sixty  pounds  a  night,  and  every 

*  conceivable  and  inconceivable  expense  paid.    To  make  an  even 

*  sum,  I  have  made  it  forty-two  nights  for  ^[^2^00.    So  I  shall 

*  now  try  to  discover  a  Christmas  number '  (he  means  the  subject 
for  one),  *  and  shall,  please  Heaven,  be  quit  of  the  whole  series 

*  of  readings  so  as  to  get  to  work  on  a  new  story  for  our  proposed 

*  new  series  of  All  the  Year  Round  early  in  the  spring.  The 
*■  readings  begin  probably  with  the  New  Year.'  These  were  fair 
designs,  but  the  fairest  are  the  sport  of  circumstance,  and  though 
the  subject  for  Christmas  was  found,  the  new  series  of  All  the 
Year  Round  never  had  a  new  story  from  its  founder.  With  what- 
ever consequence  to  himself,  the  strong  tide  of  the  Readings  was 
to  sweep  on  to  its  full.  The  American  war  had  ceased,  and  the 
first  renewed  offers  from  the  States  had  been  made  and  rejected. 
Hovering  over  all,  too,  were  other  sterner  dispositions.  '  I  think,' 
he  wrote  in  September,  *  there  is  some  strange  influence  in  the 

*  atmosphere.    Twice  last  week  I  was  seized  in  a  most  distressing  Grave 

warnings. 

*  manner — apparently  in  the  heart ;  but,  I  am  persuaded,  only  in 

*  the  nervous  system.' 

In  the  midst  of  his  ovations  such  checks  had  not  been  wanting. 
*■  The  police  reported  officially,'  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  from 
Liverpool  on  the  14th  of  April,  'that  three  thousand  people  were 

*  turned  away  from  the  hall  last  night.  .  .  Except  that  I  can  not  At  Liver- 
*■  sleep,  I  really  think  myself  in  very  much  better  training  than  I 

*■  had  anticipated.     A  dozen  oysters  and  a  little  champagne 

*  between  the  parts  every  night,  seem  to  constitute  the  best 

*  restorative  I  have  ever  yet  tried.'    '  Such  a  prodigious  demon- 

*  stration  last  night  at  Manchester,'  he  wrote  to  the  same  cor- 
respondent twelve  days  later,  '  that  I  was  obliged  (contrary  to  my 


3i6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


PRovmcEs :  <  principle  in  such  cases)  to  go  back.  I  am  very  tired  to-day ; 
7—-  '  for  it  would  be  of  itself  very  hard  work  in  that  immense  place,  if 

At  Man-  •'  r  ■> 

Chester.      « there  were  not  to  be  added  eighty  miles  of  railway  and  late  hours 

*  to  boot.'  *  It  has  been  very  heavy  work/  he  wrote  to  his  sister- 
in-law  on  the  nth  of  May  from  Clifton,  *  getting  up  at  6*30  each 

morning  after  a  heavy  night,  and  I  am  not  at  all  well  to-day. 
At  Bir-       <  We  had  a  tremendous  hall  at  Birmingham  last  night,  ^^230  odd, 

tningham 

*  2100  people;  and  I  made  a  most  ridiculous  mistake.  Had 

*  Nickleby  on  my  list  to  finish  with,  instead  of  Trial.  Read 

*  Nickleby  with  great  go,  and  the  people  remained.    Went  back 

*  again  at  10  o'clock,  and  explained  the  accident :  but  said  if 
'  they  liked  I  would  give  them  the  Trial.    They  did  like ; — and 

*  I  had  another  half  hour  of  it,  in  that  enormous  place.  .  .  I  have 
'  so  severe  a  pain  in  the  ball  of  my  left  eye  that  it  makes  it  hard 

*  for  me  to  do  anything  after  100  miles  shaking  since  breakfast 

*  My  cold  is  no  better,  nor  my  hand  either.'  It  was  his  left  eye, 
it  will  be  noted,  as  it  was  his  left  foot  and  hand  ;  the  irritabiHty 
or  faintness  of  heart  was  also  of  course  on  the  left  side ;  and  it 

See  ^ost     "^^^  ^"B^m^  left  side  he  felt  most  of  the  effect  of  the  railway 

Bookix;§4.  accident. 

Everything  was  done  to  make  easier  the  labour  of  travel,  but 

In  Scot-  nothing  could  materially  abate  either  the  absolute  physical  ex- 
haustion,  or  the  nervous  strain.  'We  arrived  here,'  he  wrote 
from  Aberdeen  (i6th  of  May),  'safe  and  sound  between  3  and  4 
'  this  morning.    There  was  a  compartment  for  the  men,  and  a 

*  charming  room  for  ourselves  furnished  with  sofas  and  easy  chairs. 
'  We  had  also  a  pantry  and  washing-stand.  This  carriage  is  to 
'  go  about  with  us.'  Two  days  later  he  wrote  from  Glasgow : 
'  We  halted  at  Perth  yesterday,  and  got  a  lovely  walk  there. 
'  Until  then  I  had  been  in  a  condition  the  reverse  of  flourishing ; 
'  half  strangled  with  my  cold,  and  dyspeptically  gloomy  and  dull ; 
'  but,  as  I  feel  much  more  like  myself  this  morning,  we  are  going 
'  to  get  some  fresh  air  aboard  a  steamer  on  the  Clyde.'  The  last 
letter  during  his  country  travel  was  from  Portsmouth  on  the  24th 
of  May,  and  contained  these  words :  *  You  need  have  no  fear 

*  about  America.'    The  readings  closed  in  June. 

The  readings  of  the  new  year  began  with  even  increased 


§  vii.j  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


317 


enthusiasm,  but  not  otherwise  with  happier  omen.    Here  was  his  Provincr* 

1867. 

first  outline  of  plan  :  *I  start  on  Wednesday  afternoon  (the  15  th  — 

*  of  January)  for  Liverpool,  and  then  go  on  to  Chester,  Derby, 

*  Leicester,  and  Wolverhampton.    On  Tuesday  the  29th  I  read 

*  in  London  again,  and  in  February  I  read  at  Manchester  and 

*  then  go  on  into  Scotland.'  From  Liverpool  he  wrote  on  the 
2 1  St:  *The  enthusiasm  has  been  unbounded.    On  Friday  night 

*  I  quite  astonished  myself ;  but  I  was  taken  so  taint  afterwards  Over-exer- 

tion  and 

*  that  they  laid  me  on  a  sofa  at  the  hall  for  half  an  hour.    I  its  result*. 

*  attribute  it  to  my  distressing  inability  to  sleep  at  night,  and  to 

*  nothing  worse.    Everything  is  made  as  easy  to  me  as  it  possibly 

*  can  be.    Dolby  would  do  anything  to  lighten  the  work,  and 

*  does  everything.'  The  weather  was  sorely  against  him.  *  At 
'  Chester,'  he  wrote  on  the  24th  from  Birmingham,  *  we  read  in 

*  a  snow-storm  and  a  fall  of  ice.    I  think  it  was  the  worst  weather 

*  I  ever  saw  ...  At  Wolverhampton  last  night  the  thaw  had 
'  thoroughly  set  in,  and  it  rained  furiously,  and  I  was  again 

*  heavily  beaten.    We  came  on  here  after  the  reading  (it  is  only 

*  a  ride  of  forty  miles),  and  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  hold 

*  out  the  journey.  But  I  was  not  faint,  as  at  Liverpool.  I  was 
'  only  exhausted.'  Five  days  later  he  had  returned  for  his  Reading 
in  London,  and  thus  replied  to  a  summons  to  dine  with  Macready 
at  my  house  :  '  I  am  very  tired ;  cannot  sleep ;  have  been  severely 

*  shaken  on  an  atrocious  railway ;  read  to-night,  and  have  to  read 

*  at  Leeds  on  Thursday.    But  I  have  settled  with  Dolby  to  put 

*  off  our  going  to  Leeds  on  Wednesday,  in  the  hope  of  coming  to 

*  dine  with  you,  and  seeing  our  dear  old  friend.    I  say  "  in  the 

*  "  hope,"  because  if  I  should  be  a  little  more  used-up  to-morrow 

*  than  I  am  to-day,  I  should  be  constrained,  in  spite  of  myself,  to 

*  take  to  the  sofa  and  stick  there.' 

On  the  15  th  of  February  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  from 
Liverpool  that  they  had  had  *  an  enormous  turn-away '  the 
previous  night  'The  day  has  been  very  fine,  and  I  have 
'  turned  it  to  the  wholesomest  account  by  walking  on  the  sands 

*  at  New  Brighton  all  the  morning.    I  am  not  quite  right  within,  sdf-decep 

*  but  believe  it  to  be  an  effect  of  the  railway  shaking.    There  is 

*  no  doubt  of  the  fact  that,  after  the  Staplehurst  experience,  it 


3i8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VI 1 1. 


Provinces:  <  tclls  more  and  more  (railway  shaking,  that  is)  instead  of,  as  one 

 '  might  have  expected,  less  and  less.'    The  last  remark  is  a 

strange  one,  from  a  man  of  his  sagacity  \  but  it  was  part  of  the 
too-willing  self-deception  which  he  practised,  to  justify  him  in  his 
professed  belief  that  these  continued  excesses  of  labour  and 
Scotland,  excitement  were  really  doing  him  no  harm.  The  day  after  that 
last  letter  he  pushed  on  to  Scotland,  and  on  the  1 7th  wrote  to 
his  daughter  from  Glasgow.  The  closing  night  at  Manchester 
had  been  enormous.    *  They  cheered  to  that  extent  after  it  was 

*  over  that  I  was  obliged  to  huddle  on  my  clothes  (for  I  was 

*  undressing  to  prepare  for  the  journey)  and  go  back  again. 

*  After  so  heavy  a  week,  it  was  rather  stiff  to  start  on  this  long 

*  journey  at  a  quarter  to  two  in  the  morning ;  but  I  got  more 
'  sleep  than  I  ever  got  in  a  railway  carriage  before  ...  I  have, 
'  as  I  had  in  the  last  series  of  readings,  a  curious  feeling  of  sore- 

ness  all  round  the  body — which  I  suppose  to  arise  from  the 
great  exertion  of  voice  .  .       Two  days  later  he  wrote  to  his 
sister-in-law  from  the  Bridge  of  Allan,  which  he  had  reached  from 
malady      Glasgow  that  moming.    '  Yesterday  I  was  so  unwell  with  an 
i.  198.        <  internal  malady  that  occasionally  at  long  intervals  troubles  me 

*  a  little,  and  it  was  attended  with  the  sudden  loss  of  so  much 

*  blood,  that  I  wrote  to  F.  B.  from  whom  I  shall  doubtless  hear 

*  to-morrow  ...  I  felt  it  a  little  more  exertion  to  read,  afterwards, 

*  and  I  passed  a  sleepless  night  after  that  again ;  but  otherwise  I  am 

*  in  good  force  and  spirits  to-day :  I  may  say,  in  the  best  force  .  .  . 

*  The  quiet  of  this  little  place  is  sure  to  do  me  good.'  He  raUied 
again  from  this  attack,  and,  though  he  still  complained  of  sleep- 
lessness, wrote  cheerfully  from  Glasgow  on  the  21st,  describing 
himself  indeed  as  confined  to  his  room,  but  only  because  'in 
'•  close  hiding  from  a  local  poet  who  has  christened  his  infant 

*  son  in  my  name,  and  consequently  haunts  the  building.'  On 
getting  back  to  Edinburgh  he  wrote  to  me,  with  intimation  that 
many  troubles  had  beset  him;  but  that  the  pleasure  of  his 
audiences,  and  the  providence  and  forethought  of  Messrs. 
Chappell,  had  borne  him  through.  *  Everything  is  done  for  me 
'  with  the  utmost  liberality  and  consideration.  Every  want  I  can 
'  have  on  these  journeys  is  anticipated,  and  not  the  faintest  spark 

4 


§  VII.]  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


319 


*  of  the  tradesman  spirit  ever  peeps  out.    I  have  three  men  in  New- 

.  CASTLE 

constant  attendance  on  me  ;  besides  Dolby,  who  is  an  agreeable  1867. 

*  companion,  an  excellent  manager,  and  a  good  fellow.' 

On  the  4th  of  March  he  wrote  from  Newcastle  :  '  The  readings 

*  have  made  an  immense  effect  in  this  place,  and  it  is  remarkable 

*  that  although  the  people  are  individually  rough,  collectively  they 

*  are  an  unusually  tender  and  sympathetic  audience ;  while  their 

*  comic  perception  is  quite  up  to  the  high  London  standard.  The. 

*  atmosphere  is  so  very  heavy  that  yesterday  we  escaped  to  Tyne- 

*  mouth  for  a  two  hours'  sea  walk.    There  was  a  high  north  wind 

*  blowing,  and  a  magnificent  sea  running.    Large  vessels  were 

*  being  towed  in  and  out  over  the  stormy  bar,  with  prodigious 
*■  waves  breaking  on  it ;  and,  spanning  the  restless  uproar  of  the 

*  waters,  was  a  quiet  rainbow  of  transcendent  beauty.    The  scene 

'  was  quite  wonderful.    We  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  it  when  At  Tyne- 

1    •  mouth. 

'  a  heavy  sea  caught  us,  knocked  us  over,  and  in  a  moment 

*  drenched  us  and  filled  even  our  pockets.  We  had  nothing  for 
'  it  but  to  shake  ourselves  together  (like  Doctor  Marigold),  and 

*  dry  ourselves  as  well  as  we  could  by  hard  walking  in  the  wind 

*  and  sunshine.    But  we  were  wet  through  for  all  that,  when  we 

*  came  back  here  to  dinner  after  half-an-hour's  railway  drive.  I 

*  am  wonderfully  well,  and  quite  fresh  and  strong.'  Three  days 
later  he  was  at  Leeds ;  from  which  he  was  to  work  himself  round 
through  the  most  important  neighbouring  places  to  another  read- 
ing in  London,  before  again  visiting  Ireland. 

This  was  the  time  of  the  Fenian  excitements  ;  it  was  with  great 
reluctance  he  consented  to  go  ;  *  and  he  told  us  all  at  his  first 


*  He  wrote  to  me  on  the  15th  of 
March  from  Dublin  :  *  So  profoundly 

*  discouraging  were  the  accounts  from 

*  here  in  London  last  Tuesday  that  I 

*  held  several  councils  with  Chappell 

*  about  coming  at  all  ;  had  actually 

*  drawn  up  a  bill  announcing  (indefi- 

*  nitely)  the  postponement  of  the  read- 
'  ings  ;  and  had  meant  to  give  him  a 
'  reading  to  cover  the  charges  incurred 
'  — but  yielded  at  last  to  his  represen- 

*  tations  the  other  way.  We  ran  through 


*  a  snow  storm  nearly  the  whole  way,  At  the 

*  and  in  Wales  got  snowed  up,  came  jj^fe"^ 

*  to  a  stoppage,  and  had  to  dig  the 
'  engine  out.  .  .  We  got  to  Dublin  at 

*  last,  found  it  snowing  and  raining, 
'  and  heard  that  it  had  been  snowing 

*  and  raining  since  the  first  day  of  the 

*  year  ...  As  to  outward  signs  of 

*  trouble  or  preparation,  they  are  very 

*  few.    At  Kingstown  our  boat  was 

*  waited  for  by  four  armed  policemen, 

*  and  some  stragglers  in  various  dresses 


320 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [Book  VIII. 


Ireland  :  arrival  that  he  should  have  a  complete  breakdown.    More  than 

1867.  ^ 
—  300  stalls  were  gone  at  Belfast  two  days  before  the  reading,  but 

on  the  afternoon  of  the  reading  in  Dublin  not  50  were  taken. 

Strange  to  say  however  a  great  crowd  pressed  in  at  night,  he  had 

a  tumultuous  greeting,  and  on  the  22  nd  of  March  I  had  this 

In  Dublin,   announcement  from  him  :  '  You  will  be  surprised  to  be  told  that 

*  we  have  done  wonders  !  Enthusiastic  crowds  have  filled  the 
.*  halls  to  the  roof  each  night,  and  hundreds  have  been  turned 

*  away.    At  Belfast  the  night  before  last  we  had     246  5^-.  In 

*  Dublin  to-night  everything  is  sold  out,  and  people  are  besieging 

*  Dolby  to  put  chairs  anjnvhere,  in  doorways,  on  my  platform,  in 

*  any  sort  of  hole  or  comer.  In  short  the  Readings  are  a  perfect 
*■  rage  at  a  time  when  everything  else  is  beaten  down.'    He  took 

Eastern  the  Eastern  Counties  at  his  return,  and  this  brought  the  series  to 
a  close.  *  The  reception  at  Cambridge  was  something  to  be  proud 
'  of  in  such  a  place.    The  colleges  mustered  in  full  force,  from 

*  the  biggest  guns  to  the  smallest ;  and  went  beyond  even  Man- 
'  Chester  in  the  roars  of  welcome  and  rounds  of  cheers.  The 
'  place  was  crammed,  and  all  through  the  reading  everything  was 

*  taken  with  the  utmost  heartiness  of  enjoyment'  The  temptation 
of  offers  from  America  had  meanwhile  again  been  presented  to 
him  so  strongly,  and  in  such  unlucky  connection  with  immediate 
family  claims  threatening  excess  of  expenditure  even  beyond  the 
income  he  was  making,  that  he  was  fain  to  write  to  his  sister-in- 

Yieiding  law  :  *  I  begin  to  feel  myself  drawn  towards  America  as  Darnay 
troi!""^'*    *  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  was  attracted  to  Paris.    It  is  my 


*  who  were  clearly  detectives.  But 

*  there  was  no  show  of  soldiery.  My 

*  people  carry  a  long  heavy  box  con- 

*  taining  gas-fittings.   This  was  imme- 

*  diately  laid  hold  of ;  but  one  of  the 
'  stragglers  instantly  interposed  on 

*  seeing  my  name,  and  came  to  me  in 
'  the  carriage  and  apologised  .  ,  . 
'  The  worst  looking  young  fellow  I 
'  ever  saw  turned  up  at  Holyhead  be- 

*  fore  we  went  to  bed  there,  and  sat 

*  glooming    and  glowering  by  the 

*  coffee-room  fire  while  we  warmed 


*  ourselves.     He  said  he  had  been 

*  snowed  up  with  us  (which  we  didn't 
'  believe),  and  was  horribly  discon- 

*  certed  by  some  box  of  his  having 

*  gone  to  Dublin  without  him.  We 

*  said  to  one  another  "  Fenian  :  "  and 

*  certainly  he  disappeared  in  the  morn- 
'  ing,  and  let  his  box  go  where  it 
'  would.'  What  Dickens  heard  and 
saw  in  Dublin,  during  this  visit,  con- 
vinced him  that  Fenianism  and  dis- 
affection had  found  their  way  into 
several  regiments. 


§  VII.] 


Third  Series  of  Readings, 


*  Loadstone  Rock.'    Too  surely  it  was  to  be  so  :  and  Dickens  Eastern 

Counties: 

was  not  to  be  saved  from  the  consequence  of  yielding  to  the  1867. 
temptation,  by  any  such  sacrifice  as  had  rescued  Darnay. 

The  letter  which  told  me  of  the  close  of  his  English  readings 
had  in  it  no  word  of  the  farther  enterprise,  yet  it  seemed  to  be 
in  some  sort  a  preparation  for  it.  *  Last  Monday  evening'  (14th 
May)  '  I  finished  the  50  Readings  with  great  success.    You  have 

*  no  idea  how  I  have  worked  at  them.    Finding  it  necessary,  as 

*  their  reputation  widened,  that  they  should  be  better  than  at  first, 
'  I  have  learnt  them  all,  so  as  to  have  no  mechanical  drawback 

*  in  looking  after  the  words.    I  have  tested  all  the  serious  passion  study 

^  given  to 

'  in  them  by  everything  I  know ;  made  the  humorous  points  readings. 

*  much  more  humorous ;  corrected  my  utterance  of  certain  words ; 
'  cultivated  a  self-possession  not  to  be  disturbed ;  and  made 

*  myself  master  of  the  situation.    Finishing  with  Dombey  (which 

*  I  had  not  read  for  a  long  time),  I  learnt  that,  like  the  rest ;  and 

*  did  it  to  myself,  often  twice  a  day,  with  exactly  the  same  pains 

*  as  at  night,  over  and  over  and  over  again.'  .  .  Six  days  later 
brought  his  reply  to  a  remark,  that  no  degree  of  excellence  to 
which  he  might  have  brought  his  readings  could  reconcile  me  to 
what  there  was  little  doubt  would  soon  be  pressed  upon  him. 
'  It  is  curious'  (20th  May)  '  that  you  should  touch  the  American 

*  subject,  because  I  must  confess  that  my  mind  is  in  a  most  dis- 

*  turbed  state  about  it.  That  the  people  there  have  set  themselves 

*  on  having  the  readings,  there  is  no  question.    Every  mail  brings 

*  me  proposals,  and  the  number  of  Americans  at  St.  James's  Hall  Read- 
'  has  been  surprising.  A  certain  Mr.  Grau,  who  took  Ristori  out,  America. 
'  and  is  highly  responsible,  wrote  to  me  by  the  last  mail  (for  the 

'  second  time)  saying  that  if  I  would  give  him  a  word  of  en- 
'  couragement  he  would  come  over  immediately  and  arrange  on 

*  the  boldest  terms  for  any  number  I  chose,  and  would  deposit 
'  a  large  sum  of  money  at  Coutts's.  Mr.  Fields  writes  to  me  on 
'  behalf  of  a  committee  of  private  gentlemen  at  Boston  who 
'  wished  for  the  credit  of  getting  me  out,  who  desired  to  heai 

*  the  readings  and  did  not  want  profit,  and  would  put  down  as 

*  a  guarantee     10,000 — also  to  be  banked  here.  Every  American  offer?. 
'  speculator  who  comes  to  London  repairs  straight  to  Dolby, 

vo;..  11.  Y 


322 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


London:  *  with  similar  proposals.     And,  thus  excited,  Chappells,  the 
1867. 

 '  moment  this  last   series   was  over,    proposed  to   treat  for 

*  America!*  Upon  the  mere  question  of  these  various  offers 
he  had  little  difficulty  in  making  up  his  mind.  If  he  went  at 
all,  he  would  go  on  his  own  account,  making  no  compact 
with  any  one.  Whether  he  should  go  at  all,  was  what  he  had  to 
determine. 

One  thing  with  his  usual  sagacity  he  saw  clearly  enough.  He 
must  make  up  his  mind  quickly.    *  The  Presidential  election 

*  would  be  in  the  autumn  of  next  year.    They  are  a  people  whom 

*  a  fancy  does  not  hold  long.    They  are  bent  upon  my  reading 

*  there,  and  they  believe  (on  no  foundation  whatever)  that  I  am 
'  going  to  read  there.    If  I  ever  go,  the  time  would  be  when  the 

*  Christmas  number  goes  to  press.  Early  in  this  next  November.* 
Every  sort  of  enquiry  he  accordingly  set  on  foot ;  and  so  far 
came  to  the  immediate  decision,  that,  if  the  answers  left  him  no 
room  to  doubt  that  a  certain  sum  might  be  reaHzed,  he  would  go. 
'  Have  no  fear  that  anything  will  induce  me  to  make  the  experi- 

fof  gSng^^  *  ment,  if  I  do  not  see  the  most  forcible  reasons  for  believing 

*  that  what  I  could  get  by  it,  added  to  what  I  have  got,  would 

*  leave  me  with  a  sufficient  fortune.  I  should  be  wretched 
'  beyond  expression  there.    My  small  powers  of  description  can- 

*  not  describe  the  state  of  mind  in  which  I  should  drag  on  from 
*■  day  to  day.'    At  the  end  of  May  he  wrote  :  *  Poor  dear  Stan- 

*  field  ! '  (our  excellent  friend  had  passed  away  the  week  before). 

*  I  cannot  think  even  of  him,  and  of  our  great  loss,  for  this  spectre 

*  of  doubt  and  indecision  that  sits  at  the  board  with  me  and  stands 

*  at  the  bedside.    I  am  in  a  tempest-tossed  condition,  and  can 

*  hardly  believe  that  I  stand  at  bay  at  last  on  the  American 

*  question.     The  difficulty  of  determining  amid  the  variety  of 

*  statements  made  to  me  is  enormous,  and  you  have  no  idea  how 
'  heavily  the  anxiety  of  it  sits  upon  my  soul.    But  the  prize  looks 

*  so  large  ! '  One  way  at  last  seemed  to  open  by  which  it  was 
possible  to  get  at  some   settled  opinion.     *  Dolby  sails  for 

^^ut  out.      '  America '  (2nd  of  July)  *  on  Saturday  the  3rd  of  August.    It  is 

*  impossible  to   come   to  any  reasonable  conclusion,  without 

*  sending  eyes  and  ears  on  the  actual  ground.    He  will  take  out 


§  VII.] 


Third  Series  of  Readings, 


323 


*  my  MS.  for  the  Children's  Magazine.    I  hope  it  is  droll,  and  London 

*  very  child-like ;  though  the  joke  is  a  grown-up  one  besides,  — — 

*  You  must  try  to  like  the  pirate  story,  for  I  am  very  fond  of  it'  See  Book  xi. 
The  allusion  is  to  his  pleasant  Holiday  Romance  which  he  had 
written  for  Mr.  Fields. 

Hardly  had  Mr.  Dolby  gone  when  there  came  that  which 
should  have  availed  to  dissuade,  far  more  than  any  of  the  argu- 
ments which  continued  to  express  my  objection  to  the  enter-  ^nheeded^ 
prise.    *I  am  laid  up,'  he  wrote  on  the  6th  of  August,  'with 
'  another  attack  in  my  foot,  and  was  on  the  sofa  all  last  night  in 

*  tortures.    I  cannot  bear  to  have  the  fomentations  taken  off  for  a 

*  moment.    I  was  so  ill  with  it  on  Sunday,  and  it  looked  so 

*  fierce,  that  I  came  up  to  Henry  Thompson.    He  has  gone  into 

*  the  case  heartily,  and  says  that  there  is  no  doubt  the  complaint 

*  originates  in  the  action  of  the  shoe,  in  walking,  on  an  enlarge- 

*  ment  in  the  nature  of  a  bunion.    Erysipelas  has  supervened 

*  upon  the  injury;  and  the  object  is  to  avoid  a  gathering,  and  to 

*  stay  the  erysipelas  where  it  is.    Meantime  I  am  on  my  back, 

*  and  chafing.  ...  I  didn't  improve  my  foot  by  going  down  to 

*  Liverpool  to  see  Dolby  off,  but  I  have  Httle  doubt  of  its  yielding 

*  to  treatment,  and  repose.'    A  few  days  later  he  was  chafing 

still  j  the  accomplished  surgeon  he  consulted  having  dropped  ^ij^^p"''^  ,^ 
other  hints  that  somewhat  troubled  him.    '  I  could  not  walk  a  opinion. 

*  quarter  of  a  mile  to-night  for  ^500.    I  make  out  so  many 

*  reasons  against  supposing  it  to  be  gouty  that  I  really  do  not 
'  think  it  is.' 

So  momentous  in  my  judgment  were  the  consequences  of  the 
American  journey  to  him  that  it  seemed  right  to  preface  thus 
much  of  the  inducements  and  temptations  that  led  to  it.  My  own 
part  in  the  discussion  was  that  of  steady  dissuasion  throughout :  Discussioo 
though  this  might  perhaps  have  been  less  persistent  if  I  could 
have  reconciled  myself  to  the  belief,  which  I  never  at  any  time 
did,  that  Public  Readings  were  a  worthy  employment  for  a  man 
of  his  genius.  But  it  had  by  this  time  become  clear  to  me  that 
nothing  could  stay  the  enterprise.  The  result  of  Mr.  Dolby's 
visit  to  America — drawn  up  by  Dickens  himself  in  a  paper 
possessing  still  the  interest  of  having  given  to  the  Readings  when 

V  2 


324 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookVIII. 


London:  he  crosscd  the  Atlantic  much  of  the  form  they  then  assumed 
1867.  ^ 


reached  me  when  I  was  staying  at  Ross  ;  and  upon  it  was 


•  This  renders  it  worth  preservation 
in  a  note.    He  called  it 

•  THE  CASE  IN  A  NUTSHELL. 
*  I.  I  think  it  may  be  taken  as  proved, 
that  general  enthusiasm  and 
excitement  are  avv^akened  in 
America  on  the  subject  of  the 
Readings,  and  that  the  people 
are  prepared  to  give  me  a  great 
reception.  The  New  York  He- 
rald, indeed,  is  of  opinion  that 
"  Dickens  must  apologise  first "; 
and  where  a  New  York  Herald 
is  possible,  any  thing  is  possible. 
But  the  prevailing  tone,  both  of 
the  press  and  of  people  of  all 
conditions,  is  highly  favourable. 
I  have  an  opinion  myself  that 
the  Irish  element  in  New  York 
is  dangerous ;  for  the  reason 
that  the  Fenians  would  be  glad 
to  damage  a  conspicuous  Eng- 
lishman. This  is  merely  an 
opinion  of  my  own. 
All  our  original  calculations  were 
based  on  100  Readings.  But  an 
unexpected  result  of  careful  en- 
quiry on  the  spot,  is  the  dis- 
covery that  the  month  of  May  is 
generally  considered  (in  the 
large  cities)  bad  for  such  a  pur- 
pose. Admitting  that  what  go- 
verns an  ordinary  case  in  this 
wise,  governs  mine,  this  reduces 
the  Readings  to  80,  and  conse- 
quently at  a  blow  makes  a  re- 
duction of  20  per  cent,  in  the 
means  of  making  money  within 
the  half  year — unless  the  objec- 
tion should  not  apply  in  my 
exceptional  instance, 
dismiss  the  consideration  that 
the  great  towns  of  America  could 
not  possibly  be  exhausted — or 
even  visited— within  6  months, 


*  and  that  a  large  harvest  would 

*  be  left  unreaped.     Because  1 

*  hold  a  second  series  of  Readings 

*  in  America  is  to  be  set  down  as 

*  out  of  the  question  :  whether 

*  regarded  as  involving  two  more 

*  voyages  across  the  Atlantic,  or 

*  a  vacation  of  five  months  in 

*  Canada. 

*  4.  The  narrowed  calculation  we  have 

*  made,    is  this :   What  is  the 

*  largest  amount  of  clear  profit 

*  derivable  under  the  most  advan- 

*  tageous  circumstances  possible, 

*  as  to  their  public  reception,  from 

*  80  readings  and  no  more  ?  In 

*  making  this  calculation,  the  ex- 

*  penses  have  been  throughout 

*  taken  on  the  New  York  scale — 

*  which  is  the  dearest ;  as  much 

*  as  20  per  cent,  has  been  deducted 

*  for  management,  including  Mr. 

*  Dolby's  commission  ;    and  no 

*  credit  has  been  taken  for  any 
'  extra  payment  on  reserved  seats, 

*  though  a  good  deal  of  money  is 

*  confidently  expected  from  this 

*  source.  But  on  the  other  hand 
'  it  is  to  be  observed  that  four 

*  Readings  (and  a  fraction  over) 
'  are  supposed  to  take  place  every 

*  week,  and  that  the  estimate  of 

*  receipts  is  based  on  the  assump- 

*  tion  that  the  audiences  are,  on 

*  all  occasions,  as  large  as  the 

*  rooms  will  reasonably  hold. 

*  5.  So  considering  80  Readings,  we 

'  bring  out  the  nett  profit  of  that 
'  number,  remaining  to  me  after 
'  payment  of  all  charges  what- 

*  ever,  as  ^^15,500. 

'  6.  But  it  yet  remains  to  be  noted 

*  that    the   calculation  assumes 

*  New  York  City,  and  the  State 

*  of  New  York,  to  be  good  for  a 
'  very  large  proportion  of  the  80 


§  vn.]  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


founded  my  last  argument  against  the  scheme.    This  he  received  London  : 

1867. 

in  London  on  the  28th  of  September,  on  which  day  he  thus  wrote  

to  his  eldest  daughter  :  *  As  I  telegraphed  after  I  saw  you,  I  am 

*  off  to  Ross  to  consult  with  Mr.  Forster  and  Dolby  together. 

*  You  shall  hear,  either  on  Monday,  or  by  Monday's  post  from 

*  London,  how  I  decide  finally.'    The  result  he  wrote  to  her 
three  days  later :  *  You  will  have  had  my  telegram  that  I  go  to  Decision 

to  go. 

*  America.   After  a  long  discussion  with  Forster,  and  considera- 

*  tion  of  what  is  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  I  have  decided  to  go 

*  through  with  it  We  have  telegraphed  Yes "  to  Boston.' 
Seven  days  later  he  wrote  to  me  :  '  The  Scotia  being  full,  I  do  not 

*  sail  until  lord  mayor's  day ;  for  which  glorious  anniversary  I 
'  have  engaged  an  officer's  cabin  on  deck  in  the  Cuba.    I  am  not 

*  in  very  brilliant  spirits  at  the  prospect  before  me,  and  am  deeply 

*  sensible  of  your  motive  and  reasons  for  the  line  you  have  taken ; 
'  but  I  am  not  in  the  least  shaken  in  the  conviction  that  I  could 

*  never  quite  have  given  up  the  idea.' 

The  remaining  time  was  given  to  preparations ;  on  the  2nd 
of  November  there  was  a  Farewell  Banquet  in  the  Freemasons' 
Hall  over  which  Lord  Lytton  presided ;  and  on  the  9th 
Dickens  sailed  for  Boston.  Before  he  left  he  had  contributed  Departure, 
his  part  to  the  last  of  his  Christmas  Numbers ;  all  the  writings 
he  was  able  to  complete  were  done  ;  and  the  interval  of  his  voyage 
may  be  occupied  by  a  general  review  of  the  literary  labour  of 
his  life. 

*  Readings  ;  and  that  the  calcula-  *  within  the  time  :  by  reason  of 

*  tion  also  assumes  the  necessary  *  other  places  that  would  come 

*  travelling  not  to  extend  beyond  *  into  the  list,  lying  wide  asunder,  q^^^ 

*  Boston  and  adjacent  places,  New  'and  necessitating  long  and  fa-  nutshell 

*  York  City  and  adjacent  places,  *  tiguing  journeys. 

'  Philadelphia,  Washington,  and  '  7-  The  loss  consequent  on  the  con- 
«  Baltimore.    But,  if  the  calcula-  '  version  of  paper  money  into  gold 

*  tion  should  prove  too  sanguine  '  (^^^^  S^^^  ^xt^tnt  ruling 
'  on  this  head,  and  if  these  places  *  premium)  is  allowed  for  in  the 
«  should       be  good  for  so  many           '  calculation.     It  counts  seven 

4,,     r  ..  •  dollars  m  the  pound. 

*  Keadmgs,  then  it  may  prove 

'  impracticable  to  get  through  80 


BOOK  NINTH. 


AUTHOR. 

1836—1870.       JEt.  26—58. 

I.  Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 
II.  Tale  of  two  Cities. 

III.  Great  Expectations. 

IV.  Christmas  Sketches. 

V.  Our  Mutual  Friend. 

VI.  Dr.  Marigold's  Prescriptions. 
VII.  Hints  for  Books  Written  and  Unwritten. 
VIII.  Closing  Word. 


1. 


DICKENS  AS  A  NOVELIST. 
1836— 1870. 

What  I  have  to  say  generally  of  Dickens's  genius  as  a  writer  London: 
may  introduce  the  notices,  which  still  remain  to  be  given,  of  his  '^^^ 
books  from  The  Tale  of  Two  Cities  to  the  time  at  which  we  have 
arrived,  leaving  Edwin  Drood  for  mention  in  its  place;  and 
these  will  be  accompanied,  as  in  former  notices  of  individual 
stories,  by  illustrations  drawn  from  his  letters  and  life.  His 
literary  work  was  so  intensely  one  with  his  nature  that  he  is 
not  separable  from  it,  and  the  man  and  the  method  throw  a 
singular  light  on  each  other.  But  some  allusion  to  what  has  been 
said  of  these  books,  by  writers  assuming  to  speak  with  authority, 
will  properly  precede  what  has  to  be  offered  by  me  ;  and  I  shall 
preface  this  part  of  my  task  with  the  hint  of  Carlyle,  that 
in  looking  at  a  man  out  of  the  common  it  is  good  for  common 
men  to  make  sure  that  they  '  see '  before  they  attempt  to  *  oversee '  See  before 

you  over- 

him.  see. 

Of  the  French  writer,  M.  Henri  Taine,  it  has  before  been 
remarked  that  his  inability  to  appreciate  humour  is  fatal  to  his 
pretensions  as  a  critic  of  the  English  novel.  But  there  is  much 
that  is  noteworthy  in  his  criticism  notwithstanding,  as  well  as 
remarkable  in  his  knowledge  of  our  language ;  his  position  en-  m.  Taine's 
titles  him  to  be  heard  without  a  suspicion  of  partizanship  or 
intentional  unfairness  \  whatever  the  value  of  his  opinion,  the 
elaboration  of  its  form  and  expression  is  itself  no  common  tribute ; 
and  what  is  said  in  it  of  Dickens's  handling  in  regard  to  style 
and  character,  embodies  temperately  objections  which  have  since 
been  taken  by  some  English  critics  without  his  impartiality  and 
with  less  than  his  ability.  As  to  style  M.  Taine  does  not  find 
that  the  natural  or  simple  prevails  sufficiendy.  The  tone  is  too 
passionate.  The  imaginative  or  poetic  side  of  allusion  is  so 
uniformly  dwelt  on,  that  the  descriptions  cease  to  be  subsidiary, 


330 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London  :  and  the  minutc  details  of  pain  or  pleasure  wrought  out  by  them 
1836-70.  ... 
  become  active  agencies  in  the  tale.    So  vivid  and  eager  is  the 

display  of  fancy  that  everything  is  borne  along  with  it ;  imaginary 
objects  take  the  precision  of  real  ones  ;  living  thoughts  are  con- 
trolled by  inanimate  things ;  the  chimes  console  the  poor  old 
ticket-porter  ;  the  cricket  steadies  the  rough  carrier's  doubts ;  the 
sea  waves  soothe  the  dying  boy ;  clouds,  flowers,  leaves,  play 
their  several  parts ;  hardly  a  form  of  matter  without  a  living 
quality ;  no  silent  thing  without  its  voice.  Fondling  and  exag- 
gerating thus  what  is  occasional  in  the  subject  of  his  criticism, 
into  what  he  has  evidently  at  last  persuaded  himself  is  a  fixed 
and  universal  practice  with  Dickens,  M.  Taine  proceeds  to  ex- 
plain the  exuberance  by  comparing  such  imagination  in  its 
What  M.     vividness  to  that  of  a  monomaniac.    He  fails  altogether  to 

Taine  over- 
looks,       apprehend  that  property  m  Humour  which  involves  the  feeling  of 

subtlest  and  most  affecting  analogies,  and  from  which  is  drawn 

the  rare  insight  into  sympathies  between  the  nature  of  things 

and  their  attributes  or  opposites,  in  which  Dickens's  fancy 

revelled  with  such  delight.     Taking  the  famous  lines  which 

express  the  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet  as  '  of  Imagination 

'  all  compact,'  in  a  sense  that  would  have  startled  not  a  little  the 

great  poet  who  wrote  them,  M.  Taine  places  on  the  same  level  of 

creative  fancy  the  phantoms  of  the  lunatic  and  the  personages  of 

the  artist    He  exhibits  Dickens  as  from  time  to  time,  in  the 

several  stages  of  his  successive  works  of  fiction,  given  up  to  one 

idea,  possessed  by  it,  seeing  nothing  else,  treating  it  in  a  hundred 

forms,  exaggerating  it,  and  so  dazzling  and  overpowering  his 

readers  with  it  that  escape  is  impossible.    This  he  maintains  to 

Alleged      be  equally  the  effect  as  Mr.  Mell  the  usher  plays  the  flute,  as 

'mono- 

•  mania.'  Tom  Pinch  enjoys  or  exposes  his  Pecksniff,  as  the  guard  blows 
his  bugle  while  Tom  rides  to  London,  as  Ruth  Pinch  crosses 
Fountain  Court  or  makes  the  beefsteak  pudding,  as  Jonas 
Chuzzlewit  commits  and  returns  from  the  murder,  and  as  the 
storm  which  is  Steerforth's  death-knell  beats  on  the  Yarmouth 
shore.  To  the  same  kind  of  power  he  attributes  the  extraordi- 
nary clearness  with  which  the  commonest  objects  in  all  his  books, 
the  most  ordinary  interiors,  any  old  house,  a  parlour,  a  boat,  a 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist 


331 


school,  fifty  things  that  in  the  ordinary  tale-teller  would  pass  London: 

unmarked,  are  made  vividly  present  and  indelible ;  are  brought   — 

out  with  a  strength  of  reHef,  precision,  and  force,  unapproached  in 
any  other  writer  of  prose  fiction ;  with  everything  minute  yet 
nothing  cold,  *  with  all  the  passion  and  the  patience  of  the 
*  painters  of  his  country/  And  while  excitement  in  the  reader  is 
thus  maintained  to  an  extent  incompatible  with  a  natural  style 
or  simple  narrative,  M.  Taine  yet  thinks  he  has  discovered,  in 
this  very  power  of  awakening  a  feverish  sensibility  and  moving 
laughter  or  tears  at  the  commonest  things,  the  source  of  Dickens's 
astonishing  popularity.  Ordinary  people,  he  says,  are  so  tired  of 
what  is  always  around  them,  and  take  in  so  little  of  the  detail 
that  makes  up  their  lives,  that  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  there  comes 
a  man  to  make  these  things  interesting,  and  turn  them  into  Secret  of 

wide  popu- 

objects  of  admiration,  tenderness,  or  terror,  the  effect  is  enchant-  i^"ty. 
ment  Without  leaving  their  arm-chairs  or  their  firesides,  they 
find  themselves  trembling  with  emotion,  their  eyes  are  filled  with 
tears,  their  cheeks  are  broad  with  laughter,  and,  in  the  discovery 
they  have  thus  made  that  they  too  can  suffer,  love,  and  feel, 
their  very  existence  seems  doubled  to  them.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  M.  Taine  that  to  effect  so  much  might  seem  to  leave  little  not 
achieved. 

So  far  from  it,  the  critic  had  satisfied  himself  that  such  a  power 
of  style  must  be  adverse  to  a  just  delineation  of  character. 
Dickens  is  not  calm  enough,  he  says,  to  penetrate  to  the  bottom 
of  what  he  is  dealing  with.  He  takes  sides  with  it  as  friend  or 
enemy,  laughs  or  cries  over  it,  makes  it  odious  or  touching,  re- 
pulsive or  attractive,  and  is  too  vehement  and  not  enough  inquisi- 
tive to  paint  a  likeness.    His  imagination  is  at  once  too  vivid  Excesses 

rr   •       1     1  T  •  1  •  defect. 

and  not  sumciently  large.  Its  tenacious  quality,  and  the  force 
and  concentration  with  which  his  thoughts  penetrate  into  the 
details  he  desires  to  apprehend,  form  limits  to  his  knowledge, 
confine  him  to  single  traits,  and  prevent  his  sounding  all  the 
depths  of  a  soul.  He  seizes  on  one  attitude,  trick,  expression,  or 
grimace  ;  sees  nothing  else ;  and  keeps  it  always  unchanged. 
Mercy  Pecksniff  laughs  at  every  word,  Mark  Tapley  is  nothing 
but  jolly,  Mrs.  Gamp  talks  incessantly  of  Mrs.  Harris,  Mr.  Chillip 


332 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London  :  is  invariably  timid,  and  Mr.  Micawber  is  never  tired  of  empha- 
 sizing  his  phrases  or  passing  with  ludicrous  brusqueness  from  joy- 
to  grief.  Each  is  the  incarnation  of  some  one  vice,  virtue,  or 
absurdity;  whereof  the  display  is  frequent,  invariable,  and  ex- 
clusive. The  language  I  am  using  condenses  with  strict  accuracy 
what  is  said  by  M.  Taine,  and  has  been  repeated  ad  nauseam  by 
others,  professing  admirers  as  well  as  open  detractors.  Mrs.  Gamp 
and  Mr.  Micawber,  who  belong  to  the  first  rank  of  humorous  crea- 
tion, are  thus  without  another  word  dismissed  by  the  French  critic ; 
Our  own     and  he  shows  no  consciousness  whatever  in  doing  it,  of  that  very 

fault  con-  ^        ^  ...  o     7  j 

demned  in    fault  in  himself  for  which  Dickens  is  condemned,  of  mistaking 

another.  '  ^ 

lively  observation  for  real  insight. 

He  has  however  much  concession  in  reserve,  being  satisfied,  by 
his  observation  of  England,  that  it  is  to  the  people  for  whom 
Dickens  wrote  his  deficiencies  in  art  are  mainly  due.  The  taste 
Morality  of  his  nation  had  prohibited  him  from  representing  character  in  a 
S°Engiand.  grand  style.  The  English  require  too  much  morality  and  re- 
ligion for  genuine  art.  They  made  him  treat  love,  not  as  holy 
and  sublime  in  itself,  but  as  subordinate  to  marriage ;  forced  him 
to  uphold  society  and  the  laws,  against  nature  and  enthusiasm ; 
and  compelled  him  to  display,  in  painting  such  a  seduction  as  in 
Copperfieid,  not  the  progress,  ardour,  and  intoxication  of  passion, 
but  only  the  misery,  remorse,  and  despair.  The  result  of  such 
surface  religion  and  morality,  combined  with  the  trading  spirit, 
M.  Taine  continues,  leads  to  so  many  national  forms  of  hypocrisy, 
and  of  greed  as  well  as  worship  for  money,  as  to  justify  this  great 
writer  of  the  nation  in  his  frequent  choice  of  those  vices  for  illus- 
tration in  his  tales.  But  his  defect  of  method  again  comes  into 
play.  He  does  not  deal  with  vices  in  the  manner  of  a  physiolo- 
gist, feeling  a  sort  of  love  for  them,  and  delighting  in  their  finer 
Dickens      traits  as  if  they  were  virtues.    He  gets  angry  over  them.    (I  do 

over-angry  .  .  .... 

with  vice,  not  interrupt  M.  Tame,  but  surely,  to  take  one  mstance  illustrative 
of  many,  Dickens's  enjoyment  in  dealing  with  Pecksniff  is  as  mani- 
fest as  that  he  never  ceases  all  the  time  to  make  him  very  hateful.) 
He  cannot,  like  Balzac,  leave  morality  out  of  account,  and  treat 
a  passion,  however  loathsome,  as  that  great  tale-teller  did,  from 
the  only  safe  ground  of  belief,  that  it  is  a  force,  and  that  force  of 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


333 


whatever  kind  is  srood.*    It  is  essential  to  an  artist  of  that  London 
°  ^  1836-70. 

superior  grade,  M.  Taine  holds,  no  matter  how  vile  his  subject,   

to  show  its  education  and  temptations,  the  form  of  brain  or  habits 
of  mind  that  have  reinforced  the  natural  tendency,  to  deduce 
it  from  its  cause,  to  place  its  circumstances  around  it,  and  to 
develop  its  effects  to  their  extremes.  In  handling  such  and  such  Balzac's 
a  capital  miser,  hypocrite,  debauchee,  or  what  not,  he  should  method, 
never  trouble  himself  about  the  evil  consequences  of  the  vices. 
He  should  be  too  much  of  a  philosopher  and  artist  to  remember 
that  he  is  a  respectable  citizen.  But  this  is  what  Dickens  never 
forgets,  and  he  renounces  all  beauties  requiring  so  corrupt  a  soil. 
M.  Taine's  conclusion  upon  the  whole  nevertheless  is,  that 
though  those  triumphs  of  art  which  become  the  property  of  all 
the  earth  have  not  been  his,  much  has  yet  been  achieved  by 
him.  Out  of  his  unequalled  observation,  his  satire,  and  his  sensi- 
bility, has  proceeded  a  series  of  original  characters  existing 
nowhere  but  in  England,  which  will  exhibit  to  future  generations 
not  the  record  of  his  own  genius  only,  but  that  of  his  country  and 
his  times. 

Between  the  judgment  thus  passed  by  the  distinguished  French 
lecturer,  and  the  later  comment  to  be  now  given  from  an  English 
critic,  certainly  not  in  arrest  of  that  judgment,  may  fitly  come  a 


*  I  may  now  subjoin  what  has  been 
said  more  recently  by  M.  Taine's 
countryman,  M.  Mezieres,  professor  of 
Foreign  Literature  at  the  Sorbonne, 
who  closed  a  course  of  lectures  on 
Dickens  in  June  1875.  ^  comparison 
between  Dickens  and  Balzac,  he  said 
in  his  last  address,  offered  much  like- 
ness, but  much  diversity.  Both  were 
admirable  observers,  but  Balzac,  who 
often  shut  himself  out  from  the  world 
and  lived  only  with  the  creations  of 
his  brain,  enjoyed  the  pleasure  merely 
of  an  artist  or  psychologist,  dissipating 
illusions  but  pointing  to  no  conclu- 
sions, whereas  Dickens  was  a  moralist. 
He  did  not  deliberately  set  himself  to 
develop  a  thesis,  but  he  planted  a 
fruitful  seed  in  his  readers'  minds.  He 


aimed  at  a  useful  and  beneficient  re-  Anothei 
suit,  and  his  works  had  corrected  French 
many  abuses.  One  rose  from  the  1875! 
perusal  of  Balzac  with  a  liking  for 
mental  anatomy,  but  with  no  generous 
emotion  ;  whereas  Dickens  stimulated 
noble  sentiments,  devotion  to  duty, 
and  a  passion  for  what  was  good.  The 
intensity  with  which  he  did  this  was 
alike  honourable  to  himself  and  his 
country.  It  was  the  great  praise  of 
English  novelists  that  one  closed  their 
books  the  better  for  having  read  them  ; 
with  more  elevated  resolutions,  with  a 
better  knowledge  of  mankind  ;  yet  a 
knowledge  which  was  not  discourag- 
ing, but  stimulated  to  the  practice  of 
what  was  good. 


334 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London:  passage  from  one  of  Dickens's  letters  saying  something  of  the 
1836-70. 

"   limitations  placed  upon  the  artist  in  England.    It  may  read  like 

Limitations  .  /.nyrrr.-.!  i- 

of  art  in     a  quasi-confession  of  one  of  M.  Tame  s  charges,  though  it  was 

England- 

not  written  with  reference  to  his  own  but  to  one  of  Scott's  later 
novels.    ^Similarly '  (15th  of  August  1856)  *I  have  always  a  fine 

*  feeling  of  the  honest  state  into  which  we  have  got,  when  some 

*  smooth  gentleman  says  to  me  or  to  some  one  else  when  I  am 
'  by,  how  odd  it  is  that  the  hero  of  an  English  book  is  always 
'  uninteresting — too  good — not  natural,  &c.    I  am  continually 

*  hearing  this  of  Scott  from  English  people  here,  who  pass  their 
Antjcipa-     '  Hves  with  Balzac  and  Sand.    But  O  my  smooth  friend,  what  a 

lor>-  reoly 

toM.  Taine.  <  shining  impostor  you  must  think  yourself  and  what  an  ass  you 

*  must  think  me,  when  you  suppose  that  by  putting  a  brazen  face 
'  upon  it  you  can  blot  out  of  my  knowledge  the  fact  that  this 

*  same  unnatural  young  gentleman  (if  to  be  decent  is  to  be  neces- 

*  sarily  unnatural),  whom  you  meet  in  those  other  books  and  in 

*  mine,  must  be  presented  to  you  in  that  unnatural  aspect  by 

*  reason  of  your  morality,  and  is  not  to  have,  I  will  not  say  any 

*  of  the  indecencies  you  like,  but  not  even  any  of  the  experiences, 

*  trials,  perplexities,  and  confusions  insepai'able  from  the  making 

*  or  unmaking  of  all  men  ! ' 

M.  Taine's  criticism  was  written  three  or  four  years  before 
Dickens's  death,  and  to  the  same  date  belong  some  notices  in 
England  which  adopted  more  or  less  the  tone  of  depreciation ; 
conceding  the  great  effects  achieved  by  the  writer,  but  disputing 
the  quality  and  value  of  his  art  For  it  is  incident  to  all  sucli 
criticism  of  Dickens  to  be  of  necessity  accompanied  by  the  ad- 
mission, that  no  writer  has  so  completely  impressed  himself  on  the 
time  in  which  he  lived,  that  he  has  made  his  characters  a  part  of 
literature,  and  that  his  readers  are  the  world. 
Blame  and  But,  a  little  morc  than  a  year  after  his  death,  a  paper  was  pub- 
reconciled.  lished  of  which  the  object  was  to  reconcile  such  seeming  incon- 
sistency, to  expound  the  inner  meanings  of  *  Dickens  in  relation 
'  to  Criticism,'  and  to  show  that,  though  he  had  a  splendid 
genius  and  a  wonderful  imagination,  yet  the  objectors  were  to  be 
excused  who  called  him  only  a  stagy  sentimentalist  and  a  clever 
caricaturist.    This  critical   essay  appeared  in  the  Fortnightly 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


335 


Review  for  February  1872,  with  the  signature  of  Mr.  George  London: 

1836-70. 

Henry  Lewes ;  and  the  pretentious  airs  of  the  performance,  with  

its  prodigious  professions  of  candour,  force  upon  me  the  painful 
task  of  stating  what  it  really  is.  During  Dickens's  life,  especially 
when  any  fresh  novelist  could  be  found  available  for  strained 
comparison  with  him,  there  were  plenty  of  attempts  to  write  him 
down  :  but  the  trick  of  studied  depreciation  was  never  carried  so 
far  or  made  so  odious  as  in  this  case,  by  intolerable  assumptions 
of  an  indulgent  superiority ;  and  to  repel  it  in  such  a  form  once 
for  all  is  due  to  Dickens's  memory. 

The  paper  begins  by  the  usual  concessions — that  he  was  a 'Dickens 
writer  of  vast  popularity,  that  he  delighted  no  end  of  people,  that  '  tion  to 

'  Criti- 

his  admirers  were  in  all  classes  and  all  countries,  that  he  stirred  '  cism.' 
the  sympathy  of  masses  not  easily  reached  through  literature  and 
always  to  healthy  emotion,  that  he  impressed  a  new  direction  on 
popular  writing,  and  modified  the  literature  of  his  age  in  its  spirit 
no  less  than  its  form.  The  very  splendour  of  these  successes,  on 
the  other  hand,  so  deepened  the  shadow  of  his  failures,  that  to 
many  there  was  nothing  but  darkness.  Was  it  unnatural  ?  Could 
greatness  be  properly  ascribed,  by  the  fastidious,  to  a  writer  Objectors 

.  .  .  to  Dickens 

whose  defects  were  so  glaring,  exaggerated,  untrue,  fantastic,  and  excused, 
melodramatic  ?  Might  they  not  fairly  insist  on  such  defects  as 
outweighing  all  positive  qualities,  and  speak  of  him  with  conde- 
scending patronage  or  sneering  irritation  ?  Why,  very  often  such 
men,  though  their  talk  would  be  seasoned  with  quotations  from, 
and  allusions  to,  his  writings,  and  though  they  would  lay  aside 
their  most  favourite  books  to  bury  themselves  in  his  new 
*  number,'  had  been  observed  by  this  critic  to  be  as  niggardly  in 
their  praise  of  him  as  they  were  lavish  in  their  scorn.  He  actually 
heard  *  a  very  distingiiished  man^  on  one  occasion,  express  mea- 
sureless contempt  for  Dickens,  and  a  few  minutes  afterwards 
admit  that  Dickens  had  '  entered  into  his  life.'  And  so  the 
critic  betook  himself  to  the  task  of  reconciling  this  immense 
popularity  and  this  critical  contempt,  which  he  does  after  the 
following  manner. 

He  says  that  Dickens  was  so  great  in  *fun'  (humour  he  does  'Fun 

conceded. 

not  concede  to  him  anywhere)  that  Fielding  and  Smollett  are 


336 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London:   small  in  Comparison,  but  that  this  would  only  have  been  a  passing 

i836-7a 

~  amusement  for  the  world  if  he  had  not  been  '  gifted  with  an 

*  imagination  of  marvellous  vividness,  and  an  emotional  sympa- 

*  thetic  nature   capable   of  furnishing  that   imagination  with 

*  elements  of  universal  power.'  To  people  who  think  that  words 
should  carry  some  meaning  it  might  seem,  that,  if  only  a  man 

•  Gifts  •       could  be  *  gifted  '  with  all  this,  nothing  more  need  be  said.  With 

described.  ^ 

marvellous  imagination,  and  a  nature  to  endow  it  with  elements 
of  universal  power,  what  secrets  of  creative  art  could  possibly  be 
closed  to  him  ?  But  this  is  a  reckoning  without  your  philoso- 
phical critic.  The  vividness  of  Dicken's  imagination  M.  Taine 
found  to  be  simply  monomaniacal,  and  his  follower  finds  it  to  be 
But  all       merely  hallucinative.    Not  the  less  he  heaps  upon  it  epithet  after 

*  mono- 

« maniac'  epithet  He  talks  of  its  irradiating  splendour;  calls  it  glorious 
as  well  as  imperial  and  marvellous ;  and,  to  make  us  quite 
sure  he  is  not  with  these  fine  phrases  puffing-off  an  inferior 
article,  he  interposes  that  such  imagination  is  *  common  to  all 
great  writers.'  Luckily  for  great  witers  in  general,  however, 
their  creations  are  of  the  old,  immortal,  common-place  sort; 
whereas  Dickens  in  his  creative  processes,  according  to  this  philo- 
sophy of  criticism,  is  tied  up  hard  and  fast  within  hallucinative 
limits. 

'  He  was,'  we  are  told,  *  a  seer  of  visions.'  Amid  silence  and 
darkness,  we  are  assured,  he  heard  voices  and  saw  objects ;  of 
which  the  revived  impressions  to  him  had  the  vividness  of  sensa- 
tions, and  the  images  his  mind  created  in  explanation  of  them 
had  the  coercive  force  of  realities ;  *  so  that  what  he  brought  into 
existence  in  this  way,  no  matter  how  fantastic  and  unreal,  was 


*  I  hope  my  readers  will  find  them- 
selves able  to  understand  that,  as  well 
as  this  which  follows  :  '  What  seems 

*  preposterous,  impossible  to  us,  seemed 

*  to  him  simple  fact  of  observation. 

*  When  he  imagined  a  street,  a  house, 

*  a  room,  a  figure,  he  saw  it  not  in  the 

*  vague  schematic  way  of  ordinary 

*  imagination,  but  in  the  sharp  defini- 

*  tion  of  actual  perception,  all  the 
'  salient  details  obtruding  themselves 


'  on  his  attention.    He,  seeing  it  thus 

*  vividly,  made  us  also  see  it ;  and 

*  believing  in  its  reality  however  fan- 

*  tastic,  he  communicated  something 

*  of  his  behef  to  us.    He  presented  it 

*  in  such  relief  that  we  ceased  to  think 

*  of  it  as  a  picture.    So  definite  and 

*  insistent  was  the  image,  that  even 

*  while  knowing  it  was  false  we  could 

*  not  help,  for  a  moment,  being  afFec- 
'  ted,  as  it  were,  by  his  hallucination.  * 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


337 


(whatever  this  may  mean)  universally  intelligible.  *  His  types  London  : 
*  established  themselves  in  the  public  mind  like  personal  ex-  — '■  


*  periences.    Their  falsity  was  unnoticed  in  the  blaze  of  their 

*  illumination.  Every  humbug  seemed  a  Pecksniff,  every  jovial 
'  improvident  a  Micawber,  every  stinted  serving-wench  a  Mar- 

*  chioness/    The  critic,  indeed,  saw  through  it  all,  but  he  gave  Critics  of 
his  warnings  m  vam.    *  In  vam  cntical  reflection  showed  these 

*  figures  to  be  merely  masks ;  not  characters,  but  personified 

*  characteristics ;   caricatures  and  distortions  of  human  nature. 

*  The  vividness  of  their  presentation  triumphed  over  reflection ; 

*  their  creator  managed  to  communicate  to  the  public  his  own 

*  unhesitating  belief    What,  however,  is  the  public  ?    Mr.  Lewes  wiih  a 

headstrong 

goes  on  to  relate.    'Give  a  child  a  wooden  horse,  with  hair  for  'public' 

*  mane  and  tail,  and  wafer-spots  for  colouring,  he  will  never  be 
'  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  this  horse  does  not  move  its  legs  but 

*  runs  on  wheels ;  and  this  wooden  horse,  which  he  can  handle 

*  and  draw,  is  believed  in  more  than  a  pictured  horse  by  a 

*  Wouvermanns  or  an  Ansdell  (!  !).    It  may  be  said  of  Dickens's 

*  human  figures  that  they  too  are  wooden,  and  run  on  wheels ; 

*  but  these  are  details  which  scarcely  disturb  the  belief  of  admirers. 
'  Just  as  the  wooden  horse  is  brought  within  the  range  of  the 

*  child's  emotions,  and  dramatizing  tendencies,  when  he  can 

*  handle  and  draw  it,  so  Dickens's  figures  are  brought  witnm  the 

*  range  of  the  reader's  interests,  and  receive  from  these  mterests 

*  a  sudden  illumination,  when  they  are  the  puppets  of  a  drama 

*  every  incident  of  which  appeals  to  the  sympathies.' 

Risum  teneatis  1  But  the  smile  is  grim  that  rises  to  the  face 
of  one  to  whom  the  relations  of  the  writer  and  his  critic,  while 
both  writer  and  critic  lived,  are  known ;  and  who  sees  the  drift 
of  now  scattering  such  rubbish  as  this  over  an  established  fame. 
As  it  fares  with  the  imagination  that  is  imperial,  so  with  the 
drama  every  incident  of  which  appeals  to  the  sympathies.  The 
one  being  explained  by  hallucination,  and  the  other  by  the 
wooden  horse,  plenty  of  fine  words  are  to  spare  by  which  con-  candour  af 
tempt  may  receive  the  show  of  candour.  When  the  characters  in 
a  play  are  puppets,  and  the  audiences  of  the  theatre  fools  or 
children,  no  wise  man  forfeits  his  wisdom  by  proceeding  to  admit 

VOL.  II.  % 


338 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  IX 


London : 
1836-70. 


daul 


What  the 
Micawbers 
are : 


not  com- 
plex organ- 
isms ; 


^hat  the  successful  pla5rwTight,  *  with  a  fine  felicity  of  instinct/ 
seized  upon  situations,  for  his  wooden  figures,  having  '  irresistible 

*  hold  over  the  domestic  affections  ; '  that,  through  his  puppets, 
he  spoke  *in  the  mother-tongue  of  the  heart;'  that,  with  his 
spotted  horses  and  so  forth,  he  *  painted  the  life  he  knew  and 

*  everyone  knew ; '  that  he  painted,  of  course,  nothing  ideal  or 
heroic,  and  that  the  wo^jd  of  thought  and  passion  lay  beyond  his 
horizon ;  but  that,  with  his  artificial  performers  and  his  feeble- 
witted  audiences,  '  all  the  resources  of  the  bourgeois  epic  were  in 
'  his  grasp  ;  the  joys  and  pains  of  childhood,  the  petty  tyrannies 
'  of  ignoble  natures,  the  genial  pleasantries  of  happy  natures,  the 

*  life  of  the  poor,  the  struggles  of  the  street  and  back  parlour, 

*  the  insolence  of  office,  the  sharp  social  contrasts,  east  wind  and 

*  Christmas  jollity,  hunger,  misery,  and  hot  punch ' — *  so  that 
even  critical  spectators  who  complained  that  these  broadly 

'  painted  pictures  were  artistic  daubs  could  not  wholly  resist 
'  their  effective  suggestiveness.'  Since  Trinculo  and  Caliban  were 
under  one  cloak,  there  has  surely  been  no  such  delicate  monster 
with  two  voices.  '  His  forward  voice,  now,  is  to  speak  well  of 
'  his  friend  j  his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul  speeches  and 
'  to  detract.'  One  other  of  the  foul  speeches  I  may  not  overlook, 
since  it  contains  what  is  alleged  to  be  a  personal  revelation  of 
Dickens  made  to  the  critic  himself. 

'  When  one  thinks  of  Micawber  always  presenting  himself  in 
'  the  same  situation,  moved  with  the  same  springs  and  uttering 

*  the  same  sounds,  always  confident  of  something  turning  up, 
'  always  crushed  and  rebounding,  always  making  punch — and  his 
'  wife  always  declaring  she  will  never  part  from  him,  always 

*  referring  to  his  talents  and  her  family — when  one  thinks  of  the 

*  "  catchwords "  personified  as  characters,  one  is  reminded  of 

*  the  frogs  whose  brains  have  been  taken  out  for  physiological 

*  purposes,  and  whose  actions  henceforth  want  the  distinctive 

*  peculiarity  of  organic  action,  that  of  fluctuating  spontaneity.' 
Such  was  that  sheer  inability  of  Dickens,  indeed,  to  comprehend 
this  complexity  of  the  organism,  that  it  quite  accounted,  in  the 
view  of  this  philosopher,  for  all  his  unnaturalness,  for  the  whole 
of  his  fantastic  people,  and  for  the  strained  dialogues  of  which 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


339 


his  books  are  made  up,  painfully  resembling  in  their  incongruity  London  : 

1836-70. 

*  the  absurd  and  eager  expositions  which  insane  patients  pour  

*  into  the  listener's  ear  when  detailing  their  wrongs,  or  their 

*  schemes.    Dickens  once  declared  to  me,'  Mr.  Lewes  continues, 

*  that  every  word  said  by  his  characters  was  distinctly  heard  by 
*■  him ;  I  was  at  first  not  a  little  puzzled  to  account  for  the  fact 

*  that  he  could  hear  language  so  utterly  unlike  the  language  of  tut  haiiud- 

00  native  phe- 

'  real  feeling,  and  not  be  aware  of  its  preposterousness ;  but  the  nomena. 

*  surprise  vanished  when  I  thought  of  the  phenomena  of  hJlu- 

*  cination.'  Wonderful  sagacity !  to  unravel  easily  such  a  bewil- 
dering *  puzzle ' !  And  so  to  the  close.  Between  the  uncultivated 
whom  Dickens  moved,  and  the  cultivated  he  failed  to  move ; 
between  the  power  that  so  worked  in  delf  as  to  stir  the  universal 
heart,  and  the  commonness  that  could  not  meddle  with  porcelain 
or  aspire  to  any  noble  clay ;  the  pitiful  see-saw  is  continued  up 
to  the  final  sentence,  where,  in  the  impartial  critic's  eagerness 
to  discredit  even  the  value  of  the  emotion  awakened  in  such  men 
as  Jeffrey  by  such  creations  as  Little  Nell,  he  reverses  all  he  has 
been  saying  about  the  cultivated  and  uncultivated,  and  presents 
to  us  a  cultivated  philosopher,  in  his  ignorance  of  the  stage, 
applauding  an  actor  whom  every  uncultivated  playgoing  apprentice 
despises  as  stagey.  But  the  bold  stroke  just  exhibited,  of  bringing  Dickens  in 
forward  Dickens  himself  in  the  actual  crisis  of  one  of  his  fits  of  S  ° 
hallucination,  requires  an  additional  word. 

To  establish  the  hallucinative  theory,  he  is  said  on  one  occasion 
to  have  declared  to  the  critic  that  every  word  uttered  by  his 
characters  was  distinctly  heard  by  him  before  it  was  written 
down.  Such  an  averment,  not  credible  for  a  moment  as  thus 
made,  indeed  simply  not  true  to  the  extent  described,  may  yet  be 
accepted  in  the  limited  and  quite  different  sense  which  a  passage 
in  one  of  Dickens's  letters  gives  to  it.  All  writers  of  genius  to 
whom  their  art  has  become  as  a  second  nature,  will  be  found 
capable  of  doing  upon  occasion  what  the  vulgar  may  think  to  be 

*  hallucination,'  but  hallucination  will  never  account  for.  After 
Scott  began  the  Bride  of  Lammertnoor  he  had  one  of  his  terrible  Incident 

IT  -ii/-'"  Scott's 

seizures  of  cramp,  yet  dunng  his  torment  he  dictated  *  that  fine  life. 

*  *  Though,*  John  Ballantyne  told  Lockhart,  '  he  often  turned  himself  on 

z  2 


340 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  ix. 


London:  novcl :  and  when  he  rose  from  his  bed,  and  the  published  book 
1836-70.  , 
 was  placed  in  his  hands,  *  he  did  not,'  James  Ballantyne  explicitly 

assured  Lockhart,  'recollect  one  single  incident,  character,  or 

*  conversation  it  contained.'  When  Dickens  was  under  the 
greatest  trial  of  his  life,  and  illness  and  sorrow  were  contending 
for  the  mastery  over  him,  he  thus  wrote  to  me.  *  Of  my  distress 
'  I  will  say  no  more  than  that  it  has  borne  a  terrible,  frightful, 

*  horrible  proportion  to  the  quickness  of  the  gifts  you  remind  me 
Not  Invent-  <■  of    But  may  I  not  be  forgiven  for  thinking  it  a  wonderful 

ing  but  see-  , 

inR^what  is  <  testimony  to  my  being  made  for  my  art,  that  when,  in  the  midst 
'  of  this  trouble  and  pain,  I  sit  down  to  my  book,  some  beneficent 
'  power  shows  it  all  to  me,  and  tempts  me  to  be  interested,  and 

*  I  don't  invent  it — really  do  not — but  see  it,  and  write  it  dowiL  . 

*  It  is  only  when  it  all  fades  away  and  is  gone,  that  I  begin  to 
'  suspect  that  its  momentary  relief  has  cost  me  something.' 

Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of  the  man  who  wrote  those 
words,  he  had  the  claim  to  be  judged  by  reference  to  the  highest 
models  in  the  art  which  he  studied.    In  the  literature  of  his 
Claim  to     time,  from  1836  to  1870,  he  held  the  most  conspicuous  place, 

be  fairly 

judged.  and  his  claim  to  the  most  popular  one  in  the  literature  of  fiction 
was  by  common  consent  admitted.  He  obtained  this  rank  by 
the  sheer  force  of  his  genius,  unhelped  in  any  way,  and  he  held 
it  without  dispute.  As  he  began  he  closed.  After  he  had  written 
for  only  four  months,  and  after  he  had  written  incessantly  for 
four  and  thirty  years,  he  was  of  all  living  writers  the  most  widely 
read.  It  is  of  course  quite  possible  that  such  popularity  might 
imply  rather  littleness  in  his  contemporaries  than  greatness  in 
him :  but  his  books  are  the  test  to  judge  by.  Each  thus  far,  as 
it  appeared,  has  had  notice  in  these  pages  for  its  illustration  of 

*  his  pillow  with  a  groan  of  toiment,  statement  of  James  Ballantyne  is  at 

*  he  usually  continued  the  sentence  in  p.  89  of  the  same  volume.  The  original 
'  the  same  breath.  But  when  dialogue  incidents  on  which  he  had  founded  the 

*  of  peculiar  animation  was  in  pro-  tale  Scott  remembered  on  recovery, 
'  gress,  spirit  seemed  to  triumph  alto-  but  *  not  a  single  character  woven  by 
'  gether  over  matter — he  arose  from  *  the  romancer,  not  one  of  the  many 

*  his  couch  and  walked  up  and  down  *  scenes  and  points  of  humour,  nor 
'  the  room,  raising  and  lowering  his  *  anything  with  which  he  was  con- 
'  voice,  and  as  it  were  acting  the  '  nected  as  the  writer  of  the  work. ' 

*  parts.'    Lockhart^  vi.  67-8.  The 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


341 


his  life,  or  of  his  method  of  work,  or  of  the  variety  and  versatility  London  : 

1836-70. 

in  the  manifestations  of  his  power.    But  his  latest  books  remain  

still  for  notice,  and  will  properly  suggest  what  is  farther  to  be  said 
of  his  general  place  in  literature. 

His  leading  quality  was  Humour.    It  has  no  mention  in  either  His  leading 

....  .  .        .  .  quality. 

of  the  cnticisms  cited,  but  it  was  his  highest  faculty ;  and  it 
accounts  for  his  magnificent  successes,  as  well  as  for  his  not 
infrequent  failures,  in  characteristic  delineation.  He  was  conscious 
of  this  himself.  Five  years  before  he  died,  a  great  and  generous 
brother  artist.  Lord  Lytton,  amid  much  ungrudging  praise  of  a 
work  he  was  then  publishing,  asked  him  to  consider,  as  to  one 
part  of  it,  if  the  modesties  of  art  were  not  a  little  overpassed. 

*  I  cannot  tell  you,'  he  replied,  *  how  highly  I  prize  your  letter, 

*  or  with  what  pride  and  pleasure  it  inspires  me.    Nor  do  I  for 

*  a  moment  question  its  criticism  (if  objection  so  generous  and 

*  easy  may  be  called  by  that  hard  name)  otherwise  than  on  this 

*  ground — that  I  work  slowly  and  with  great  care,  and  never  give 

*  way  to  my  invention  recklessly,  but  constantly  restrain  it ;  and 

*  that  I  think  it  is  my  infirmity  to  fancy  or  perceive  relations  in 

*  things  which  are  not  apparent  generally.    Also,  I  have  such  an  ^^^^^ 

*  inexpressible  enjoyment  of  what  I  see  in  a  droll  light,  that  I  strancT" 

*  dare  say  I  pet  it  as  if  it  were  a  spoilt  child.    This  is  all  I  have 

*  to  offer  in  arrest  of  judgment'  To  perceive  relations  in  things 
which  are  not  apparent  generally,  is  one  of  those  exquisite  pro- 
perties of  humour  by  which  are  discovered  the  affinities  between 
the  high  and  the  low,  the  attractive  and  the  repulsive,  the  rarest 
things  and  things  of  every  day,  which  bring  us  all  upon  the  level 
of  a  common  humanity.  It  is  this  which  gives  humour  an 
immortal  touch  that  does  not  belong  of  necessity  to  pictures, 
even  the  most  exquisite,  of  mere  character  or  manners ;  the 
property  which  in  its  highest  aspects  Carlyle  so  subtly  described  humour  at 
as  a  sort  of  inverse  sublimity,  exalting  into  our  affections  what 

is  below  us  as  the  other  draws  down  into  our  affections  what 
is  above  us.  But  it  has  a  danger  which  Dickens  also  hints  at, 
and  into  which  he  often  fell.  All  humour  has  in  it,  is  indeed 
identical  with,  what  ordinary  people  are  apt  to  call  exaggeration  ; 
but  there  is  an  excess  beyond  the  allowable  even  hercv  and  to 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


*  pet '  or  magnify  out  of  proper  bounds  its  sense  of  what  is  droll, 
is  to  put  the  merely  grotesque  in  its  place.  What  might  have 
been  overlooked  in  a  writer  with  no  uncommon  faculty  of  in- 
vention, was  thrown  into  overpowering  prominence  by  Dickens's 
wealth  of  fancy ;  and  a  splendid  excess  of  his  genius  came  to  be 
objected  to  as  its  integral  and  essential  quality. 

It  cannot  be  said  to  have  had  any  place  in  his  earlier  books. 
His  powers  were  not  at  their  highest  and  the  humour  was  less 
fine  and  subtle,  but  there  was  no  such  objection  to  be  taken. 
No  misgiving  interrupted  the  enjoyment  of  the  wonderful  fresh- 
ness of  animal  spirits  in  Pickwick  ;  but  beneath  its  fun,  laughter, 
and  light-heartedness  were  indications  of  ability  of  the  first  rank 
in  the  delineation  of  character.  Some  caricature  was  in  the  plan ; 
but  as  the  circle  of  people  widened  beyond  the  cockney  club, 
and  the  delightful  oddity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  took  more  of  an  inde- 
pendent existence,  a  different  method  revealed  itself,  nothing 
appeared  beyond  the  exaggerations  permissible  to  humorous 
comedy,  and  the  art  was  seen  which  can  combine  traits  vividly 
true  to  particular  men  or  women  with  propensities  common  to  all 
mankind.  This  has  its  highest  expression  in  Fielding :  but  even 
the  first  of  Dickens's  books  showed  the  same  kind  of  mastery ; 
and,  by  the  side  of  its  life-like  middle-class  people  universally 
familiar,  there  was  one  figure  before  seen  by  none  but  at  once 
knowable  by  all,  delightful  for  the  surprise  it  gave  by  its  singularity 
and  the  pleasure  it  gave  by  its  truth ;  and,  though  short  of  the 
highest  in  this  form  of  art,  taking  rank  with  the  class  in  which 
live  everlastingly  the  dozen  unique  inventions  that  have  im- 
mortalized the  English  novel.  The  groups  in  Oliver  Twisty 
Fagin  and  his  pupils,  Sikes  and  Nancy,  Mr.  Bumble  and  his 
parish-boy,  belong  to  the  same  period ;  when  Dickens  also  began 
those  pathetic  delineations  that  opened  to  the  neglected,  the 
poor,  and  the  fallen,  a  world  of  compassion  and  tenderness.  Yet 
I  think  it  was  not  until  the  third  book,  Nickleby^  that  he  began 
to  have  his  place  as  a  writer  conceded  to  him  ;  and  that  he 
ceased  to  be  regarded  as  a*mere  phenomenon  or  marvel  of  for- 
tune, who  had  achieved  success  by  any  other  means  than  that  of 
deserving  it,  and  who  challenged  no  criticism  better  worth  the 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


343 


name  than  such  as  he  has  received  from  the  Fortnightly  reviewer.  London  : 

1836-7C. 

It  is  to  be  added  to  what  before  was  said  of  Nickleby^  that  it  

Dialogue  in 

established  beyond  dispute  his  mastery  of  dialogue,  or  that  power 
of  making  characters  real  existences,  not  by  describing  them  but 
by  letting  them  describe  themselves,  which  belongs  only  to  story- 
tellers of  the  first  rank.  Dickens  never  excelled  the  easy  handling 
of  the  subordinate  groups  in  this  novel,  and  he  never  repeated  its 
mistakes  in  the  direction  of  aristocratic  or  merely  polite  and 
dissipated  life.  It  displayed  more  than  before  of  his  humour  on 
the  tragic  side ;  and,  in  close  connection  with  its  affecting  scenes 
of  starved  and  deserted  childhood,  were  placed  those  contrasts 
of  miser  and  spendthrift,  of  greed  and  generosity,  of  hypocrisy 
and  simple-heartedness,  which  he  handled  in  later  books  with 
greater  force  and  fulness,  but  of  which  the  first  formal  expression 
was  here.  It  was  his  first  general  picture,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
character  and  manners  of  his  time,  which  it  was  the  design  more 
or  less  of  all  his  books  to  exhibit ;  and  it  suffers  by  comparison 
with  his  later  productions,  because  the  humour  is  not  to  the  same 
degree  enriched  by  imagination ;  but  it  is  free  from  the  not  in- 
frequent excess  into  which  that  supreme  gift  also  tempted  its 
possessor.  None  of  the  tales  is  more  attractive  throughout,  and 
on  the  whole  it  was  a  step  in  advance  even  of  the  stride  previously 
taken.  Nor  was  the  gain  lost  in  the  succeeding  story  of  the  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,  The  humorous  traits  of  Mrs.  Nickleby  could  ^^"^'^jj* 
hardly  be  surpassed  :  but,  in  Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness,  osityShop. 
there  was  a  subtlety  and  lightness  of  touch  that  led  to  finer 
issues ;  and  around  Little  Nell  *  and  her  fortunes,  surpassingly 
touching  and  beautiful,  let  criticism  object  what  it  will,  were 
gathered  some  small  characters  that  had  a  deeper  intention  and 
more  imaginative  insight,  than  anything  yet  done.  Strokes  of 
this  kind  were  also  observable  in  the  hunted  life  of  the  murderer 

*  *  Do  you  know  Master  Hum-  *  to  some.  No  doubt  it  was  suggested 

*  phrey's  Clock?    I  admire  Nell  in  the  'by  Mignon.'  —  Sara   Coleridge  to 

*  Old  Curiosity  Shop  exceedingly.  The  Aubrey  de  Vere  {Memoirs  and  Letters^ 

*  whole  thing  is  a  good  deal  borrowed  ii.  269-70.)    Expressing  no  opinion 

*  from  Wilhelm  Meister.    But  Little  on  this  comparison,  I  may  state  it  as 

*  Nell  is  a  far  purer,  lovelier,  more  within  my  knowledge  that  the  book 

*  English  conception   than  Mignon,  referred  :o  was  not  then  known  to 

*  treasonable  as  the  saying  would  seem  Dickens. 


344 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  IX. 


^1836-70 "       Barnaby  Rudge ;  and  his  next  book,  Chuzzleunt^  was,  as  it 
Bamaby     ^"^^  rcmains,  one  of  his  greatest  achievgnents.    Even  so  brief  a 
Rudie.       retrospect  of  the  six  opening  years  of  Dickens's  literary  labour 
will  help  to  a  clearer  judgment  of  the  work  of  the  twenty-eight 
more  years  that  remained  to  him. 

To  the  special  observations  already  made  on  the  series  of 
Later  storics  which  followed  the  return  from  America,  Chuzzlewit, 
Dombey,  Copperfield^  and  Bleak  House,  in  which  attention  has 
been  directed  to  the  higher  purpose  and  more  imaginative  treat- 
ment that  distinguished  them,*  a  general  remark  is  to  be  added. 
Though  the  range  of  character  they  traverse  is  not  wide,  it  is 
surrounded  by  a  fertility  of  invention  and  illustration  without 
example  in  any  previous  novelist ;  and  it  is  represented  in  these 
books,  so  to  speak,  by  a  number  and  variety  of  existences 
sufficiently  real  to  have  taken  places  as  among  the  actual  people 
of  the  world.  Could  half  as  many  known  and  universally 
recognisable  men  and  women  be  selected  out  of  one  story,  by 
any  other  prose  writer  of  the  first  rank,  as  at  once  rise  to  the 
Realities     mind  from  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Dickens  ?    So  difficult  of 

of  fiction. 

dispute  is  this,  that  as  much  perhaps  will  be  admitted ;  but  then 
it  will  be  added,  if  the  reply  is  by  a  critic  of  the  school  burlesqued 
by  Mr.  Lewes,  that  after  all  they  are  not  individual  or  special 
men  and  women  so  much  as  general  impersonations  of  men  and 
women,  abstract  types  made  up  of  telling  catchwords  or  surface 
traits,  though  with  such  accumulation  upon  them  of  a  wonderful 
wealth  of  humorous  illustration,  itself  filled  with  minute  and 
accurate  knowledge  of  life,  that  the  real  nakedness  of  the  land 
of  character  is  hidden.  Well,  what  can  be  rejoined  to  this,  but 
that  the  poverty  or  richness  of  any  territory  worth  survey  will  for 
the  most  part  lie  in  the  kind  of  observation  brought  to  it.  There 

*  The  distinction  so  pointed  out  *  besides  all  the  fun,  some  very  marked 

was  remarked  by  Sara  Coleridge  {Me-  '  and  available  morals.  I  scarce  know 

moirs  and  Letters^  ii.  169)  in  writing  *  any  book  in  which  the  evil  and 

of  her  children.    '  They  like  to  talk  *  odiousness  of  selfishness  are  more 

'  to  me  .  .  .  above  all  about  the  pro-  '  forcibly  brought  out,  or  in  a  greater 

*  ductionsof  Dickens,  the  never-to-be-  *  variety  of  exhibitions.    In  the  midst 

*  exhausted  fun  of  Pickwick,  and  the  *  of  the  merry  quotations,  or  at  least 
'  capital  new  strokes  of  Martin  Chuz-  '  on  any  fair  opportunity,  I  draw  the 

*  z/rwii.     This  last  work  contains,  *  boys'  attention  to  these  points. ' 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


345 


was  no  finer  observer  than  Johnson  of  the  manners  of  his  time,  London  : 

1836-70. 

and  he  protested  of  their  greatest  delineator  that  he  knew  only  j^^^^ — 
the  shell  of  Hfe.    Another  of  his  remarks,  after  a  fashion  followed  °" 

'  contempo- 

by  the  criticizers  of  Dickens,  places  Fielding  below  one  of  his  ^^^^ 
famous  contemporaries  ;  but  who  will  not  now  be  eager  to  reverse 
such  a  comparison,  as  that  Fielding  tells  you  correctly  enough 
what  o'clock  it  is  by  looking  at  the  face  of  the  dial,  but  that 
Richardson  shows  you  how  the  watch  is  made?  There  never 
was  a  subtler  or  a  more  sagacious  observer  than  Fielding,  or  who 
better  deserved  what  is  generously  said  of  him  by  Smollett,  that 
he  painted  the  characters  and  ridiculed  the  follies  of  life  with 
equal  strength,  humour,  and  propriety.  But  might  it  not  be  said  ^j.^'^J^JJ^^^" 
of  him,  as  of  Dickens,  that  his  range  of  character  was  limited ;  ^°  Fielding, 
and  that  his  method  of  proceeding  from  a  central  idea  in  all  his 
leading  people,  exposed  him  equally  to  the  charge  of  now  and 
then  putting  human  nature  itself  in  place  of  the  individual  who 
should  only  be  a  small  section  of  it  ?  This  is  in  fact  but  another 
shape  of  what  I  have  expressed  on  a  former  page,  that  what  a 
character,  drawn  by  a  master,  will  roughly  present  upon  its 
surface,  is  frequently  such  as  also  to  satisfy  its  more  subtle 
requirements ;  and  that  when  only  the  salient  points  or  sharper 
prominences  are  thus  displayed,  the  great  novelist  is  using  his  See 
undoubted  privilege  of  showing  the  large  degree  to  which  human 
intercourse  is  carried  on,  not  by  men's  habits  or  ways  at  their 
commonest,  but  by  the  touching  of  their  extremes.  A  definition 
of  Fielding's  genius  has  been  made  with  some  accuracy  in  the 
saying,  that  he  shows  common  propensities  in  connection  with 
the  identical  unvarnished  adjuncts  which  are  peculiar  to  the 
individual,  nor  could  a  more  exquisite  felicity  of  handling  than  this 
be  any  man's  aim  or  desire  ;  but  it  would  be  just  as  easy,  by  employ- 
ment of  the  critical  rules  applied  to  Dickens,  to  transform  it  into 
matter  of  censure.  Partridge,  Adams,  Trulliber,  Squire  Western,  Fielding's 
and  the  rest,  present  themselves  often  enough  under  the  same 
aspects,  and  use  with  sufficient  uniformity  the  same  catchwords, 
to  be  brought  within  the  charge  of  mannerism ;  and  though 
M.  Taine  cannot  fairly  say  of  Fielding  as  of  Dickens,  that  he 
suffers  from  too  much  morality,  he  brings  against  him  precisely 


346 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London  :  the  charge  so  strongly  put  against  the  later  novelist  of  '  looking 

1836-70. 

 '  upon  the  passions  not  as  simple  forces  but  as  objects  of  appro- 

'  bation  or  blame/  We  must  keep  in  mind  all  this  to  understand 
the  worth  of  the  starved  fancy,  that  can  find  in  such  a  delineation 
as  that  of  Micawber  only  the  man  described  by  Mr.  Lewes  as 
always  in  the  same  situation,  moved  with  the  same  springs  and 
uttering  the  same  sounds,  always  confident  of  something  turning 
up,  always  crushed  and  rebounding,  always  making  punch,  and 
his  wife  always  declaring  she  will  never  part  from  him.  It  is  not 
thus  that  such  creations  are  to  be  viewed ;  but  by  the  light  which 

^uois  of  ei^^bles  us  to  see  why  the  country  squires,  village  schoolmasters, 

fiction  live.  hedge  parsons  of  Fielding  became  immortal.  The  later  ones 
will  live,  as  the  earlier  do,  by  the  subtle  quality  of  genius  that 
makes  their  doings  and  sayings  part  of  those  general  incentives 
which  pervade  mankind.  Who  has  not  had  occasion,  however 
priding  himself  on  his  unlikeness  to  Micawber,  to  think  of 
Micawber  as  he  reviewed  his  own  experiences?  Who  has  not 
himself  waited,  like  Micawber,  for  something  to  turn  up  ?  Who 
has  not  at  times  discovered,  in  one  or  other  acquaintance  or 
friend,  some  one  or  other  of  that  cluster  of  sagacious  hints  and 
fragments  of  human  life  and  conduct  which  the  kindly  fancy  of 
Dickens  embodied  in  this  delightful  form  ?  If  the  irrepressible 
New  Zealand er  ever  comes  over  to  achieve  his  long  promised 
sketch  of  St.  Paul's,  who  can  doubt  that  it  will  be  no  other  than 
our  undying  Micawber,  who  had  taken  to  colonisation  the  last 
time  we  saw  him,  and  who  will  thus  again  have  turned  up  ?  There 

Univer-      are  uot  many  conditions  of  life  or  society  to  which  his  and  his 

sality  of 

humorous    wifc's  expcriences  are  not  applicable :  and  when,  the  year  after 

experiences. 

the  immortal  couple  made  their  first  appearance  on  earth.  Pro- 
tection was  in  one  of  its  then  frequent  difficulties,  declaring  it 
could  not  live  without  something  widely  different  from  existing 
circumstances  shortly  turning  up,  and  imploring  its  friends  to 
throw  down  the  gauntlet  and  boldly  challenge  society  to  turn  up 
a  majority  and  rescue  it  from  its  embarrassments,  a  distinguished 
wit  seized  upon  the  likeness  to  Micawber,  showed  how  closely  it 
was  borne  out  by  the  jollity  and  gin-punch  of  the  banquets  at 
which  the  bewailings  were  heard,  and  asked  whether  Dickens 


§1.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


347 


had  stolen  from  the  farmer's  friends  or  the  farmer's  friends  had  London: 

1836-70. 

stolen  from  Dickens.    *  Com,  said  Mr.  Micawber,  may  be  gentle-  —  

*  manly,  but  it  is  not  remunerative.  .  .  I  ask  myself  this  question : 

*  if  com  is  not  to  be  relied  on,  what  is?  We  must  live.  .  .' 
Loud  as  the  general  laughter  was,  I  think  the  laughter  of  Dickens 
himself  was  loudest,  at  this  discovery  of  so  exact  and  unexpected 
a  likeness.* 

A  readiness  in  all  forms  thus  to  enjoy  his  own  pleasantry  was  Dickens's 

■'   •'  ^  •'  enjoyment 

indeed  always  observable  (it  is  common  to  great  humourists,  nor  J^^^^"^" 
would  it  be  easier  to  carry  it  farther  than  Sterne  did),  and  his 
own  confession  on  the  point  may  receive  additional  illustration 
before  proceeding  to  the  later  books.  He  accounted  by  it,  as  we 
have  seen,  for  occasional  even  grotesque  extravagances.  In 
another  of  his  letters  there  is  this  passage :  '  I  can  report  that  I 
'  have  finished  the  job  I  set  myself,  and  that  it  has  in  it  some- 

*  thing — to  me  at  all  events — so  extraordinarily  droll,  that  though 

*  I  have  been  reading  it  some  hundred  times  in  the  course  of  the 

*  working,  I  have  never  been  able  to  look  at  it  with  the  least 

*  composure,  but  have  always  roared  in  the  most  unblushing 

*  All  the  remarks  in  my  text  had  '  of  his  ridicule  of  philosophy,    or  Unpub- 

been  some  time  in  type  when  Lord  *  summons  Frogs  and  Gods  to  unite  by^j^ifg"^^* 

Lytton  sent  me  what  follows,  from  one  '  in  his  satire  on  Euripides.     The  late  Lord 

of  his  father's  manuscript  note-books.  *  Don  Quixote  of  Cervantes  never  ^y"""* 

Substantially  it  agrees  with  what  I  ♦  lived,  nor,  despite  the  vulgar  beHef, 

have    said ;    and  such   unconscious  *  ever  could  have  lived,  in  Spain ; 

testimony  of  a  brother  novelist  of  *  but  the  art  of  the  portrait  is  in  the 

so  high  a  rank,  preeminently  careful  *  admirable  exaltation  of  the  humorous 

in  the  study  of  his  art,  is  of  special  '  by  means  of  the  exaggerated.  With 

value.    *  The  greatest  masters  of  the  *  more  or  less  qualification,  the  same 

*  novel  of  modern  manners  have  gene-  *  may  be  said  of  Parson  Adams,  of 

*  rally  availed  themselves  of  Humour  '  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  and  even  of 
'  for  the  illustration  of  manners  ;  and  *  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  .  .  It  fol- 
'  have,  with  a  deep  and  true,  but  per-  *  lows  therefore  that  art  and  correct- 
'  haps  unconscious,  knowledge  of  art,  *  ness  are  far  from  identical,  and  that 
'  pushed  the  humour  almost  to  the  *  the  one  is  sometimes  proved  by  the 

*  verge  of  caricature.    For,   as  the  '  disdain  of  the  other.    For  the  ideal, 

*  serious  ideal  requires  a  certain  ex-  *  whether  humorous  or  serious,  does 

*  aggeration  in  the  proportions  of  the  *  not  consist  in  the  imitation  but  in 

*  natural,  so  also  does  the  ludicrous.  '  the  exaltation  of  nature.    And  we 

*  Thus  Aristophanes,  in  painting  the  '  must  accordingly  enquire  of  art,  not 

*  humours  of  his  time,  resorts  to  the  *  how  far  it  resembles  what  we  have 

*  most  poetical  extravagance  of  ma-  '  seen,  so  much  as  how  far  it  embodies 
'  chiner)-,  and  calls  the  Clouds  in  aid  '  what  we  can  imagine. ' 


348 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London:  '  manner.    I  leave  you  to  find  out  what  it  was.'    It  was  the 

1836-70. 

 ^-7-  encounter  of  the  major  and  the  tax-collector  in  the  second  Mrs. 

per.'  Lirriper.  Writing  previously  of  the  papers  in  Household  Words 
called  The  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  after  saying  that 
he  and  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  had  written  together  a  story  in  the 

•Lazy       second  part,  *  in  which  I  think  you  would  find  it  very  difficult 

*  to  say  where  I  leave  off  and  he  comes  in,*  he  had  said  of  the 
preceding  descriptions  :  *  Some  of  my  own  tickle  me  very  much  ; 
'  but  that  may  be  in  great  part  because  I  know  the  originals,  and 
'  delight  in  their  fantastic  fidelity.'    *  I  have  been  at  work  with 

*  such  a  will,'  he  v/rites  later  of  a  piece  of  humour  for  the  holidays, 

*  that  I  have  done  the  opening  and  conclusion  of  the  Christmas 
'  number.    They  are  done  in  the  character  of  a  waiter,  and  I 

*  think  are  exceedingly  droll.    The  thread  on  which  the  stories 

*  are  to  hang,  is  spun  by  this  waiter,  and  is,  purposely,  very 

*  slight ;  but  has,  I  fancy,  a  ridiculously  comical  and  unexpected 

Somebody's 

*  end.    The  waiter's  account  of  himself  includes  (I  hope)  every- 
Luggage.     ^  ^j^-j^g        know  about  waiters,  presented  humorously.'    In  this 

last  we  have  a  hint  of  the  *  fantastic  fidelity '  with  which,  when 
a  fancy  *  tickled '  him,  he  would  bring  out  what  Corporal  Nym 
calls  the  humour  of  it  under  so  astonishing  a  variety  of  con- 
ceivable and  inconceivable  aspects  of  subtle  exaggeration,  that 
nothing  was  left  to  the  subject  but  that  special  individual  illus- 
tration of  it.  In  this,  however,  humour  was  not  his  servant  but 
his  master:  because  it  reproduced  too  readily,  and  carried  too 
far,  the  grotesque  imaginings  to  which  great  humourists  are  prone ; 
which  lie  indeed  deep  in  their  nature ;  and  from  which  they 
derive  their  genial  sympathy  with  eccentric  characters  that  enables 
them  to  find  motives  for  what  to  other  men  is  hopelessly  obscure, 
to  exalt  into  types  of  humanity  what  the  world  turns  impatiently 
aside  at,  and  to  enshrine  in  a  form  for  eternal  homage  and  love 
such  whimsical  absurdity  as  Captain  Toby  Shandy's.  But  Dickens 
Tempta-     was  too  couscious  of  thcsc  exccsses  from  time  to  time,  not  zealously 

tion  of 

all  great      to  endeavour  to  keep  the  leading  characters  in  his  more  important 

humour-  _  ... 

stories  under  some  strictness  of  discipline.  To  confine  exaggera- 
tion within  legitimate  limits  was  an  art  he  laboriously  studied ; 
and,  in  whatever  proportions  of  failure  or  success,  during  the 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


349 


vicissitudes  of  both  that  attended  his  later  years,  he  continued  to  London  : 

•'  i836-7a 

endeavour  to  practise  it.  In  regard  to  mere  description,  it  is  ~ 
true,  he  let  himself  loose  more  frequently,  and  would  sometimes 
defend  it  even  on  the  ground  of  art ;  nor  would  it  be  fair  to  omit 
his  reply,  on  one  occasion,  to  some  such  remonstrance  as  M.  Taine 
has  embodied  in  his  adverse  criticism,  against  the  too  great 
imaginative  wealth  thrown  by  him  into  mere  narrative.*   *It  does  a  word  for 

°  the  fanciful 

*  not  seem  to  me  to  be  enough  to  say  of  any  description  that  it 

*  is  the  exact  truth.    The  exact  truth  must  be  there ;  but  the 

*  merit  or  art  in  the  narrator,  is  the  manner  of  stating  the  truth. 

*  As  to  which  thing  in  literature,  it  always  seems  to  me  that  there 

*  is  a  world  to  be  done.  And  in  these  times,  when  the  tendency 
'  is  to  be  frightfully  literal  and  catalogue-like — to  make  the  thing, 

*  in  short,  a  sort  of  sum  in  reduction  that  any  miserable  creature 


*  I  cannot  refuse  myself  the  satis- 
faction of  quoting,  from  the  best  criti- 
cism of  Dickens  I  have  seen  since  his 
death,  remarks  very  pertinent  to  what 
is  said  in  my  text.     *  Dickens  pos- 

*  sessed  an  imagination  unsurpassed, 

*  not  only  in  vividness,  but  in  swift- 

*  ness.    I  have  intentionally  avoided 

*  all  needless  comparisons  of  his  works 
'  with  those  of  other  writers  of  his 
'  time,  some  of  whom  have  gone  be- 
'  fore  him  to  their  rest,  while  others 

*  survive  to  gladden  the  darkness  and 

*  relieve  the  monotony  of  our  daily 

*  life.    But  in  the  power  of  his  imagi- 

*  nation — of  this  I  am  convinced — he 

*  surpassed  them,  one  and  all.  That 

*  imagination  could  call  up  at  will 

*  those  associations  which,  could  we 

*  but  summon  them  in  their  full  num- 

*  ber,  would  bind  together  the  human 

*  family,  and  make  that  expression  no 
'  longer  a  name,  but  a  living  reality. 

*  .  .  .  Such  associations  sympathy 
'  alone  can  warm  into  life,  and  imagi- 
'  nation  alone  can  at  times  discern. 
'  The  great  humourist  reveals  them  to 

*  every  one  of  us ;  and  his  genius  is 
'  indeed  an  inspiration  from  no  human 

*  source,  in  that  it  enables  him  to 


*  render  this  service  to  the  brotherhood  Professor 
'  of  mankind.    But  more  than  this,  ^ickti^ 

*  So  marvellously  has  this  earth  become 
'  the  inheritance   of  mankind,  that 

*  there  is  not  a  thing  upon  it,  animate 

*  or  inanimate,  with  which,  or  with 

*  the  likeness  of  which,  man's  mind 

*  has  not  come  into  contact  ;  .  .  . 

*  with  which  human  feelings,  aspira- 

*  tions,  thoughts,  have  not  acquired 

*  an  endless  variety  of  single  or  subtle 

*  associations.  .  .  These  also,  which 

*  we  imperfectly  divine  or  carelessly 

*  pass  by,  the  imagination  of  genius 

*  distinctly  reveals  to  us,  and  power- 

*  fully  impresses  upon  us.  When  they 
'  appeal  directly  to  the  emotions  of 

*  the  heart,  it  is  the  power  of  Pathos 

*  which  has  awakened  them ;  and 
'  when  the  suddenness,  the  unexpec- 

*  tedness,  the  apparent  oddity  of  the 

*  one  by  the  side  of  the  other,  strike 
'  the  mind  with  irresistible  force,  it  is 

*  the  equally  divine  gift  of  Humour 
'  which  has  touched  the  spring  of 

*  laughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring  of 

*  tears.' — Charles  Dickens.  A  Lecture 
by  Professor  Ward.  Delivered  in 
Manchester^  ydth  November,  1870. 


350 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  ix. 


London  :  '  can  do  in  that  way — I  have  an  idea  (really  founded  on  the  love 
1859. 

 '  of  what  I  profess),  that  the  very  holding  of  popular  literature 

*  through  a  kind  of  popular  dark  age,  may  depend  on  such  fanciful 

*  treatment.* 


II. 

THE  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

°'  Dickens's  next  story  to  Little  Dorrit  was  the  Tale  of  Two 
1857-8^-  Cities,  of  which  the  first  notion  occurred  to  him  while  acting  with 
his  friends  and  his  children  in  the  summer  of  1857  in  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins's  drama  of  The  Frozen  Deep.  But  it  was  only  a  vague 
fancy,  and  the  sadness  and  trouble  of  the  winter  of  that  year  were 
not  favourable  to  it.  Towards  the  close  (27th)  of  January  1858, 
talking  of  improvements  at  Gadshill  in  which  he  took  little 
interest,  it  was  again  in  his  thoughts.  '  Growing  inclinations  of  a 
fitful  and  undefined  sort  are  upon  me  sometimes  to  fall  to  work 

*  on  a  new  book.  Then  I  think  I  had  better  not  worry  my 
'  worried  mind  yet  awhile.    Then  I  think  it  would  be  of  no  use  if 

*  I  did,  for  I  couldn't  settle  to  one  occupation. — And  that's  all ! ' 

*  If  I  can  discipline  my  thoughts,'  he  wrote  three  days  later,  *  into 
'  the  channel  of  a  story,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  get  to  work 
'  on  one :  always  supposing  that  I  find  myself,  on  the  trial,  able 
'  to  do  well.    Nothing  whatever  will  do  me  the  least  "  good  "  in 

*  the  way  of  shaking  the  one  strong  possession  of  change  im- 

*  pending  over  us  that  every  day  makes  stronger ;  but  if  I  could 

*  work  on  with  some  approach  to  steadiness,  through  the  summer, 

*  the  anxious  toil  of  a  new  book  would  have  its  neck  well  broken 

*  before  beginning  to  publish,  next  October  or  November.  Some- 

*  times,  I  think  I  may  continue  to  work ;  sometimes,  I  think  not. 
Title-hunt-   .  What  do  you  say  to  the  title.  One  of  these  Days  ? '  That 

title  held  its  ground  very  briefly.  *  What  do  you  think,'  he  wrote 
after  six  weeks,  *  of  this  name  for  my  story — Buried  Alive  ? 

*  Does  it  seem  too  grim  ?    Or,  The  Thread  of  Gold  ?  Or, 

*  The  Doctor  of  Beauvais  ?  *    But  not  until  twelve  months 


The  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


351 


later  did  he  fairly  buckle  himself  to  the  task  he  had  contemplated  London  : 

so  long.    All  the  Year  Round  had  taken  the  place  of  Household  — 

Words  in  the  interval ;  and  the  tale  was  then  started  to  give 
strength  to  the  new  weekly  periodical,  in  which  it  was  resolved 
to  publish  it 

*  This  is  merely  to  certify/  he  wrote  on  the  i  ith  of  March  1859, 

*  that  I  have  got  exactly  the  name  for  the  story  that  is  wanted ; 

*  exactly  what  will  fit  the  opening  to  a  T.    A  Tale  of  Two 

*  Cities.  Also,  that  I  have  struck  out  a  rather  original  and  bold 
'  idea.    That  is,  at  the  end  of  each  month  to  publish  the  monthly 

*  part  in  the  green  cover,  with  the  two  illustrations,  at  the  old 

*  shilling.    This  will  give  All  the  Year  Round  always  the  interest 

*  and  precedence  of  a  fresh  weekly  portion  during  the  month ; 

*  and  will  give  me  my  old  standing  with  my  old  public,  and  the  Monthly 
advantage  (very  necessary  in  this  story)  of  having  numbers  of  weekly^' 

*  people  who  read  it  in  no  portions  smaller  than  a  monthly  part. 
' .  .  My  American  ambassador  pays  a  thousand  pounds  for  the 

*  first  year,  for  the  privilege  of  republishing  in  America  one  day 

*  after  we  publish  here.  Not  bad  ?  '  .  .  He  had  to  struggle  at  the 
opening  through  a  sharp  attack  of  illness,  and  on  the  9th  of  July 
progress  was  thus  reported.    *  I  have  been  getting  on  in  health 

*  very  slowly  and  through  irksome  botheration  enough.  But 

*  I  think  I  am  round  the  corner.    This  cause — and  the  heat — 

*  has  tended  to  my  doing  no  more  than  hold  my  ground,  my  old 

*  month's  advance,  with  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities,    The  small 

*  portions  thereof,  drive  me  frantic ;  but  I  think  the  tale  must 

*  have  taken  a  strong  hold.    The  run  upon  our  monthly  parts  is 

*  surprising,  and  last  month  we  sold  35,000  back  numbers.  A 

*  note  I  have  had  from  Carlyle  about  it  has  given  me  especial 

*  pleasure.'  A  letter  of  the  following  month  expresses  the 
intention  he  had  when  he  began  the  story,  and  in  what  respect  it 
differs  as  to  method  from  all  his  other  books.    Sending  in  proof  Speciality 

^  in  its 

four  numbers  ahead  of  the  current  publication,  he  adds  :  *  I  hope  treatment. 

*  you  will  like  them.    Nothing  but  the  interest  of  the  subject,  and 

*  the  pleasure  of  striving  with  the  difficulty  of  the  form  of  treat- 

*  ment, — nothing  in  the  way  of  mere  money,  I  mean, — could  else 

*  repay  the  time  and  trouble  of  the  incessant  condensation.  But 


352 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  ix. 


London  :  '  I  sct  myself  the  little  task  of  making  a  picturesque  story ^  rising  in 
1859. 

 *  every  chapter,  with  characters  true  to  nature,  but  whom  the 

'  story  should  express  more  than  they  should  express  themselves 
Not  dia-  '  by  dialogue.  I  mean  in  other  words,  that  I  fancied  a  story  of 
incident.     '  incident  might  be  written  (in  place  of  the  odious  stuff  that  is 

*  written  under  that  pretence),  pounding  the  characters  in  its  own 

*  mortar,  and  beating  their  interest  out  of  them.  If  you  could 
'  have  read  the  story  all  at  once,  I  hope  you  wouldn't  have 
'  stopped  halfway.'  *  Another  of  his  letters  supplies  the  last 
illustration  I  need  to  give  of  the  design  and  meanings  in  regard  to 
this  tale  expressed  by  himself.  It  was  a  reply  to  some  objections 
of  which  the  principal  were,  a  doubt  if  the  feudal  cruelties  came 
sufficiently  within  the  date  of  the  action  to  justify  his  use  of  them, 
and  some  question  as  to  the  manner  of  disposing  of  the  chief 
revolutionary  agent  in  the  plot.    *  I  had  of  course  full  knowledge 

*  of  the  formal  surrender  of  the  feudal  privileges,  but  these  had 
Pspiy  to  an  <  bcen  bitterly  felt  quite  as  near  to  the  time  of  the  Revolution  as 

*  the  Doctor's  narrative,  which  you  will  remember  dates  long 
'  before  the  Terror.  With  the  slang  of  the  new  philosophy  on  the 
'  one  side,  it  was  surely  not  unreasonable  or  unallowable,  on  the 

*  other,  to  suppose  a  nobleman  wedded  to  the  old  cruel  ideas, 

*  The  opening  of  this  letter  (25  th  *  plain  without  it.  .  .  Lastly  of  course, 

of  August  1859),  referring  to  a  con-  '  though  a  merciful  man  (because  a 

viction  for  murder,  afterwards  reversed  *  merciful  man,  I  mean),  I  would  hang 

by  a  Home  Office  pardon  against  the  *  any  Home  Secretary,  Whig,  Tory, 

continued    and    steadily    expressed  '  Radical,  or  otherwise,  who  should 

opinion  of  the  judge  who  tried  the  *  step  in  between  so  black  a  scoundrel 

case,  is  much  too  characteristic  of  the  '  and  the  gallows.  .  .  I  am  reminded 

writer  to  be  lost.    '  I  cannot  easily  of  Tennyson  by  thinking  that  King 

'  tell  you  how  much  interested  I  am  *  Arthur  would  have  made  short  work 

*  by  what  you  tell  me  of  our  brave  and  '  of  the  amiable  man  !  How  fine  the 
'  excellent  friend.  .  .  I  have  often  had  *  Idylls  are  !    Lord  !  what  a  blessed 

*  more  than  half  a  mind  to  write  and  *  thing  it  is  to  read  a  man  who  really 
'  thank  that  upright  judge.    I  declare  *  can  write.    I  thought  nothing  could 

*  to  heaven  that  I  believe  such  a  ser-  *  be  finer  than  the  first  poem,  till  I 
'  vice  one  of  the  greatest  that  a  man  *  came  to  the  third  ;  but  when  I  had 
'  of  intellect  and  courage  can  render  *  read  the  last,  it  seemed  to  me  to  be 
'  to  society.  .  .  Of  course  I  have  been  *  absolutely  unapproachable. '  Other 
'  driving  the  girls  out  of  their  wits  literary  likings  rose  and  fell  with  him. 

*  here,  by  incessantly  proclaiming  that  but  he  never  faltered  in  his  allegiance 
'  there  needed  no  medical  evidence  to  Tennyson. 

*  either  way,  and  that  the  case  was 


The  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


353 


*  aiid  representing  the  time  going  out  as  his  nephew  represents  London: 

*  the  time  coming  in.    If  there  be  anything  certain  on  earth,  I  

*  take  it  that  the  condition  of  the  French  peasant  generally  at  that 

*  day  was  intolerable.    No  later  enquiries  or  provings  by  figures 

*  will  hold  water  against  the  tremendous  testimony  of  men  living 

*  at  the  time.    There  is  a  curious  book  printed  at  Amsterdam,  AuthoritieiL 

*  written  to  make  out  no  case  whatever,  and  tiresome  enough  in 

*  its  literal  dictionary-like  minuteness  ;  scattered  up  and  down  the 
'pages  of  which  is  full  authority  for  my  marquis.     This  is 

*  Mercier's  Tableau  de  Paris.    Rousseau  is  the  authority  for  the 

*  peasant's  shutting  up  his  house  when  he  had  a  bit  of  meat.  The 

*  tax-tables  are  the  authority  for  the  wretched  creature's  im- 

*  poverishment.  .  .  I  am  not  clear,  and  I  never  have  been  clear, 

*  respecting  the  canon  of  fiction  which  forbids  the  interposition  of 

*  accident  in  such  a  case  as  Madame  Defarge's  death.  Where 
'  the  accident  is  inseparable  from  the  passion  and  action  of  the 

*  character ;  where  it  is  strictly  consistent  with  the  entire  design, 

*  and  arises  out  of  some  culminating  proceeding  on  the  part  of  the 
*in dividual  which  the  whole  story  has  led  up  to ;  it  seems  to  me 

*  to  become,  as  it  were,  an  act  of  divine  justice.    And  when  I  use 

*  Miss  Pross  (though  this  is  quite  another  question)  to  bring  about 

*  such  a  catastrophe,  I  have  the  positive  intention  of  making  that 

*  half-comic  intervention  a  part  of  the  desperate  woman's  failure  • 

*  and  of  opposing  that  mean  death,  instead  of  a  desperate  one  in 
*■  the  streets  which  she  wouldn't  have  minded,  to  the  dignity  of 

*  Carton's.    Wrong  or  right,  this  was  all  design,  and  seemed  to 

*  me  to  be  in  the  fitness  of  things.' 

These  are  interesting  intimations  of  the  care  with  which 
Dickens  worked ;  and  there  is  no  instance  in  his  novels,  ex- 
cepting this,  of  a  deliberate  and  planned  departure  from  the  carc  with 
method  of  treatment  which  had  been  pre-eminently  the  source  of  SSns 
his  popularity  as  a  novelist  To  rely  less  upon  character  than 
upon  incident,  and  to  resolve  that  his  actors  should  be  expressed 
by  the  story  more  than  they  should  express  themselves  by 
dialogue,  was  for  him  a  hazardous,  and  can  hardly  be  called  an 
entirely  successful,  experiment.  With  singular  dramatic  vivacity, 
much  constructive  art,  and  with  descriptive  passages  of  a  high 

VOL.  II.  A  A 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  ix. 


order  everywhere  (the  dawn  of  the  terrible  outbreak  in  the  journey 
of  the  marquis  from  Paris  to  his  country  seat,  and  the  London 
crowd  at  the  funeral  of  the  spy,  may  be  instanced  for  their  power), 
there  was  probably  never  a  book  by  a  great  humourist,  and  an 
artist  so  prolific  in  the  conception  of  character,  with  so  little 
humour  and  so  few  rememberable  figures.  Its  merits  lie  else- 
where. Though  there  are  excellent  traits  and  touches  all  through 
the  revolutionary  scenes,  the  only  full-length  that  stands  out 
prominently  is  the  picture  of  the  wasted  life  saved  at  last  by 
heroic  sacrifice.  Dickens  speaks  of  his  design  to  make  impressive 
the  dignity  of  Carton's  death,  and  in  this  he  succeeded  perhaps 
even  beyond  his  expectation.  Carton  suffers  himself  to  be  mis- 
taken for  another,  and  gives  his  life  that  the  girl  he  loves  may  be 
happy  with  that  other ;  the  secf et  being  known  only  to  a  poor 
little  girl  in  the  tumbril  that  takes  them  to  the  scaffold,  who  at 
the  moment  has  discovered  it,  and  whom  it  strengthens  also  to 
die.  The  incident  is  beautifully  told  j  and  it  is  at  least  only  fair 
to  set  against  verdicts  not  very  favourable  as  to  this  effort  of  his 
invention,  what  was  said  of  the  particular  character  and  scene, 
and  of  the  book  generally,  by  an  American  critic  whose  literary 
studies  had  most  familiarized  him  with  the  rarest  forms  of  imagi- 
native writing.*    *  Its  pourtrayal  of  the  noble-natured  castaway 

*  makes  it  almost  a  peerless  book  in  modem  literature,  and  gives 

*  it  a  place  among  the  highest  examples  of  literary  art  .  .  The 

*  conception  of  this  character  shows  in  its  author  an  ideal  of 

*  magnanimity  and  of  charity  unsurpassed.    There  is  not  a 

*  grander,   lovelier  figure  than   the   self-wrecked,  self-devoted 

*  Sydney  Carton,  in  literature  or  history ;  and  the  story  itself  is  so 
<  noble  in  its  spirit,  so  grand  and  graphic  in  its  style,  and  filled 

*  with  a  pathos  so  profound  and  simple,  that  it  deserves  and  will 

*  surely  take  a  place  among  the  great  serious  works  of  imagination.' 
I  should  myself  prefer  to  say  that  its  distinctive  merit  is  less  in 
any  of  its  conceptions  of  character,  even  Carton's,  than  as  a 
specimen  of  Dickens's  power  in  imaginative  story-telling.  There 
is  no  piece  of  fiction  known  to  me,  in  which  the  domestic  life  of 

*  Mr.  Grant  White,  whose  edition  of  Shakespeare  has  been  received  with 
much  respect  in  England. 


§  ni.] 


Great  Expectations. 


355 


a  few  simple  private  people  is  in  such  a  manner  knitted  and  inter.  g^*^  * 
woven  with  the  outbreak  of  a  terrible  public  event,  that  the  one  ~ 
seems  but  part  of  the  other.  When  made  conscious  of  the  first 
sultry  drops  of  a  thunderstorra  that  fall  upon  a  little  group  sitting 
in  an  obscure  EngUsh  lodging,  we  are  witness  to  the  actual  begin- 
ning of  a  tempest  which  is  preparing  to  sweep  away  everything  in 
France.  And,  to  the  end,  the  book  in  this  respect  is  really 
remarkable. 


III. 

GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 

The  Tale  of  Two  Cities  was  published  in  1859 ;  the  series  of 
papers  collected  as  the  Uncommercial  Traveller  were  occupying 
Dickens  in  i860  ;  and  it  was  while  engaged  in  these,  and  throwing 
off  in  the  course  of  them  capital  *  samples '  of  fun  and  enjoy- 
ment, he  thus  replied  to  a  suggestion  that  he  should  let  himself 
loose  upon  some  single  humorous  conception,  in  the  vein  of  his 
youthful  achievements  in  that  way.    *For  a  little  piece  I  have  Germ  of 

,  new  tale. 

'  been  writmg — or  am  wntmg ;  for  I  hope  to  finish  it  to-day — 

*  such  a  very  fine,  new,  and  grotesque  idea  has  opened  upon  me, 

*  that  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  I  had  not  better  cancel  the  little 

*  paper,  and  reserve  the  notion  for  a  new  book.    You  shall  judge 

*  as  soon  as  I  get  it  printed.    But  it  so  opens  out  before  me  that 

*  I  can  see  the  whole  of  a  serial  revolving  on  it,  in  a  most  singular 

*  and  comic  manner.'  This  was  the  germ  of  Pip  and  Magwitch, 
which  at  first  he  intended  to  make  the  groundwork  of  a  tale  in 

the  old  twenty-number  form,  but  for  reasons  perhaps  fortunate  intended 

for  20 

brought  afterwards  within  the  limits  of  a  less  elaborate  novel.  Mumbers. 

*  Last  week,'  he  wrote  on  the  4th  of  October  i860,  *  I  got  to  work 

*  on  the  new  story.    I  had  previously  very  carefully  considered 

*  the  state  and  prospects  of  All  the  Year  Round,  and,  the  more  I 

*  considered  them,  the  less  hope  I  saw  of  being  able  to  get  back, 

*  now,  to  the  profit  of  a  separate  publication  in  the  old  20 

*  numbers.'  (A  tale,  which  at  the  time  was  appearing  in  his 
serial,  had  disappointed  expectation.)    *  However,  I  worked  on, 

*  knowing  that  what  I  was  doing  would  run  into  anoth  er  groove ; 


356 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London  :  '  and  I  Called  a  council  of  war  at  the  office  on  Tuesday.    It  was 

i860.  .  ^ 

— —  '  perfectly  clear  that  the  one  thing  to  be  done  was,  for  me  to 

Judicious 

change.      *  Strike  in.    I  have  therefore  decided  to  begin  the  story  as  of  the 

*  length  of  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  on  the  first  of  December — 

*  begin  publishing,  that  is.    I  must  make  the  most  I  can  out  of 

*  the  book.    You  shall  have  the  first  two  or  three  weekly  parts 

*  to-morrow.    The  name  is  Great  Expectations.    I  think  a 

*  good  name  ? '    Two  days  later  he  wrote  :  *  The  sacrifice  of 

*  Great  Expectations  is  really  and  truly  made  for  myself.  The 

*  property  of  All  the  Year  Round  is  far  too  valuable,  in  every  way, 
'  to  be  much  endangered.  Our  fall  is  not  large,  but  we  have  a 
'  considerable  advance  in  hand  of  the  story  we  are  now  publishing, 

*  and  there  is  no  vitality  in  it,  and  no  chance  whatever  of  stopping 
'  the  fall ;  which  on  the  contrary  would  be  certain  to  increase. 

Stropping     '  Now,  if  I  went  into  a  twenty-number  serial,  I  should  cut  off  my 

*  power  of  doing  anything  serial  here  for  two  good  years — and 

*  that  would  be  a  most  perilous  thing.    On  the  other  hand,  by 

*  dashing  in  now,  I  come  in  when  most  wanted ;  and  if  Reade 

*  and  Wilkie  follow  me,  our  course  will  be  shaped  out  handsomely 
'  and  hopefully  for  between  two  and  three  years.  A  thousand 
'  pounds  are  to  be  paid  for  early  proofs  of  the  story  to  America.' 
A  few  more  days  brought  the  first  instalment  of  the  tale,  and 
explanatory  mention  of  it.    *  The  book  will  be  witten  in  the  first 

*  person  throughout,  and  during  these  first  three  weekly  numbers 
bo"y  child  '  ^^^^  ^  boy-child,  like  David.  Then  he 
for  hero.      <            an  apprentice.    You  will  not  have  to  complain  of  the 

*  want  of  humour  as  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities.    I  have  made  the 

*  opening,  I  hope,  in  its  general  effect  exceedingly  drolL  I  have 
'  put  a  child  and  a  good-natured  foolish  man,  in  relations  that 
'  seem  to  me  very  funny.    Of  course  I  have  got  in  the  pivot  on 

*  which  the  story  will  turn  too — and  which  indeed,  as  you  re- 
'  member,  was  the  grotesque  tragi-comic  conception  that  first 

*  encouraged  me.    To  be  quite  sure  I  had  fallen  into  no  uncon- 

*  scious  repetitions,  I  read  David  Copperfield  again  the  other  day, 

*  and  was  affected  by  it  to  a  degree  you  would  hardly  believe.' 

It  may  be  doubted  if  Dickens  could  better  have  established  his 
right  to  th^  front  rank  ainon^  novelists  claimed  for  him,  than  by 


§  in.] 


Great  Expectations. 


357 


the  ease  and  mastery  with  which,  in  these  two  books  of  Copperfield  London  : 

1861. 

and  Great  Expectations^  he  kept  perfectly  distinct  the  two  stories   

of  a  bo/s  childhood,  both  told  in  the  form  of  autobiography.  A 
subtle  penetration  into  character  marks  the  unlikeness  in  the 
likeness ;  there  is  enough  at  once  of  resemblance  and  of  differ-  unniceness 
ence  in  the  position  and  surroundings  of  each  to  account  for  the  iJ^ss'^^" 
divergences  of  character  that  arise ;  both  children  are  good-  SS'pip. 
hearted,  and  both  have  the  advantage  of  association  with  models 
of  tender  simplicity  and  oddity,  perfect  in  their  truth  and  quite 
distinct  from  each  other;  but  a  sudden  tumble  into  distress 
steadies  Peggotty's  little  friend,  and  as  unexpected  a  stroke  of 
good  fortune  turns  the  head  of  the  small  protege  of  Joe  Gargery.  ^fj^p^ 
What  a  deal  of  spoiling  nevertheless,  a  nature  that  is  really  good  so"y' 
at  the  bottom  of  it  will  stand  without  permanent  damage,  is  nicely 
shown  in  Pip ;  and  the  way  he  reconciles  his  determination  to  act 
very  shabbily  to  his  early  friends,  with  a  conceited  notion  that 
he  is  setting  them  a  moral  example,  is  part  of  the  shading  of  a 
character  drawn  with  extraordinary  skill.  His  greatest  trial  comes 
out  of  his  good  luck;  and  the  foundations  of  both  are  laid  at 
the  opening  of  the  tale,  in  a  churchyard  down  by  the  Thames,  as 
it  winds  past  desolate  marshes  twenty  miles  to  the  sea,  of  which 
a  masterly  picture  in  half  a  dozen  lines  will  give  only  average 
example  of  the  descriptive  writing  that  is  everywhere  one  of  the 
charms  of  the  book.  It  is  strange,  as  I  transcribe  the  words, 
with  what  wonderful  vividness  they  bring  back  the  very  spot  on 
which  we  stood  when  he  said  he  meant  to  make  it  the  scene  of 
the  opening  of  his  story — Cooling  Castle  ruins  and  the  desolate 
Church,  lying  out  among  the  marshes  seven  miles  from  Gadshill ! 

*  My  first  most  vivid  and  broad  impression  .  .  on  a  memorable 

*  raw  afternoon  towards  evening  .  .  was  .  .  that  this  bleak  place, 

*  overgrown  with  nettles,  was  the  churchyard,  and  that  the  dark 
'  flat  wilderness  beyond  the  churchyard,  intersected  with  dykes 

*  and  mounds  and  gales,  with  scattered  cattle  feeding  on  it,  was 
'  the  marshes ;  and  that  the  low  leaden  line  beyond,  was  the 

*  river ;  and  that  the  distant  savage  lair  from  which  the  wind  was 
'  rushing,  was  the  sea  .  .  .  On  the  edge  of  the  river  .  .  only  two 
'  black  things  in  all  the  prospect  setmed  to  be  standing  upright 


358 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  iX. 


London  :  « .  .  one,  the  beacon  by  which  the  sailors  steered,  like  an  un- 

i86i  •'  ' 


*  hooped  cask  upon  a  pole,  an  ugly  thing  when  you  were  near  it ; 
So?k  otthe  '       Other,  a  gibbet  with  some  chains  hanging  to  it  which  hjid 
•torv.        <  once  held  a  pirate/    Here  Magwitch,  an  escaped  convict  from 
Chatham,  terrifies  the  child  Pip  into  stealing  for  him  food  and  a 
file ;  and  though  recaptured  and  transported,  he  carries  with  him 
to  Australia  such  a  grateful  heart  for  the  small  creature's  service, 
that  on  making  a  fortune  there  he  resolves  to  make  his  little 
friend  a  gentleman.    This  requires  circumspection  ;  and  is  so 
done,  through  the  Old-Bailey  attorney  who  has  defended  Mag- 
witch  at  his  trial  (a  character  of  surprising  novelty  and  truth), 
that  Pip  imagines  his  present  gifts  and  ^  great  expectations '  to 
have  come  from  the  supposed  rich  lady  of  the  story  (whose 
eccentricities  are  the  unattractive  part  of  it,  and  have  yet  a 
weird  character  that  somehow  fits  in  with  the  kind  of  wrong  she 
has  suffered).    When  therefore  the  closing  scenes  bring  back 
Magwitch  himself,  who  risks  his  life  to  gratify  his  longing  to  see 
the  gentleman  he  has  made,  it  is  an  unspeakable  horror  to  the 
draShigV  y^^^^     discover  his  benefactor  in  the  convicted  felon.    If  an) 
character.  doubts  Dickeus's  power  of  so  drawing  a  character  as  to  get 

to  the  heart  of  it,  seeing  beyond  surface  peculiarities  into  the 
moving  springs  of  the  human  being  himself,  let  him  narrowly 
examine  those  scenes.  There  is  not  a  grain  of  substitution  of 
mere  sentiment,  or  circumstance,  for  the  inner  and  absolute 
reality  of  the  position  in  which  these  two  creatures  find  them- 
selves. Pip's  loathing  of  what  had  built  up  his  fortune,  and  his 
horror  of  the  uncouth  architect,  are  apparent  in  even  his  most 
generous  efforts  to  protect  him  from  exposure  and  sentence. 
Magwitch's  convict  habits  strangely  blend  themselves  with  his 
wild  pride  in,  and  love  for,  the  youth  whom  his  money  has  turned 
into  a  gentleman.  He  has  a  craving  for  his  good  opinion ;  dreads 
to  offend  him  by  his  *  heavy  grubbing,'  or  by  the  oaths  he  lets  fall 
now  and  then  ;  and  pathetically  hopes  his  Pip,  his  dear  boy, 
won't  think  him  *low*:  but,  upon  a  chum  of  Pip's  appearing 
unexpectedly  while  they  are  together,  he  pulls  out  a  jack-knife 
by  way  of  hint  he  can  defend  himself,  and  produces  after- 
wards a  greasy  little  clasped  black  Testament  on  which  th<" 


§  III.]  Great  Expectations, 


359 


startled  new-comer,  being  found  to  have  no  hostile  intention,  is  London  : 

1861. 

sworn  to  secrecy.    At  the  opening  of  the  story  there  had  been   

an  exciting  scene  of  the  wretched  man's  chase  and  recapture  chase  and 

...  recapture. 

among  the  marshes,  and  this  has  its  parallel  at  the  close  m  his 
chase  and  recapture  on  the  river  while  poor  Pip  is  helping  to 
get  him  off.  To  make  himself  sure  of  the  actual  course  of  a  boat 
in  such  circumstances,  and  what  possible  incidents  the  adventure 
might  have,  Dickens  hired  a  steamer  for  the  day  from  Blackwall 
to  Southend.  Eight  or  nine  friends  and  three  or  four  members 
of  his  family  were  on  board,  and  he  seemed  to  have  no  care,  the 
whole  of  that  summer  day  (22nd  of  May  1861),  except  to  enjoy 
their  enjoyment  and  entertain  them  with  his  own  in  shape  of 
a  thousand  whims  and  fancies ;  but  his  sleepless  observation  was 
at  work  all  the  time,  and  nothing  had  escaped  his  keen  vision  on 
either  side  of  the  river.  The  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  third  volume 
is  a  masterpiece. 

The  characters  generally  afford  the  same  evidence  as  those  two  Minor 

people. 

that  Dickens's  humour,  not  less  than  his  creative  power,  was  at 
its  best  in  this  book.  The  Old-Bailey  attorney  Jaggers,  and  his 
clerk  Wemmick  (both  excellent,  and  the  last  one  of  the  oddities 
that  live  in  everybody's  liking  for  the  goodheartedness  of  its 
comic  surprises),  are  as  good  as  his  earliest  efforts  in  that 
line ;  the  Pumblechooks  and  Wopsles  are  as  perfect  as  bits  of 
Nickleby  fresh  from  the  mint ;  and  the  scene  in  which  Pip,  and 
Pip's  chum  Herbert,  make  up  their  accounts  and  schedule  their 
debts  and  obligations,  is  original  and  delightful  as  Micawber 
himself.  It  is  the  art  of  living  upon  nothing  and  making  the 
best  of  it,  in  its  most  pleasing  form.  Herbert's  intentions  to 
trade  east  and  west,  and  get  himself  into  business  transactions 
of  a  magnificent  extent  and  variety,  are  as  perfecdy  warranted  to 
us,  in  his  way  of  putting  them,  by  merely  *■  being  in  a  counting- 

*  house  and  looking  about  you,'  as  Pip's  means  of  paying  his 
debts  are  lightened  and  made  easy  by  his  method  of  simply 
adding  them  up  with  a  margin.    '  The  time  comes,'  says  Herbert,  Margins 

and  opeo- 

*  when  you  see  your  opening.    And  you  go  in,  and  you  swoop  i^gs. 

*  upon  it,  and  you  make  your  capital,  and  then  there  you  are ! 

*  When  you  have  once  made  your  capital  you  have  nothing  to  do 


36o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London : 
1861. 


Homely 
and  shrewd 
satire. 


Incident 
objected  to  : 


'  but  employ  it'  In  like  manner  Pip  tells  us,  *  Suppose  your 
'  debts  to  be  one  hundred  and  sixty  four  pounds  four  and  two- 

*  pence,  I  would  say,  leave  a  margin  and  put  them  down  at  two 

*  hundred ;  or  suppose  them  to  be  four  times  as  much,  leave  a 
'  margin  and  put  them  down  at  seven  hundred.'  He  is  sufficiently 
candid  to  add,  that,  while  he  has  the  highest  opinion  of  the 
wisdom  and  prudence  of  the  margin,  its  dangers  are  that  in  the 
sense  of  freedom  and  solvency  it  imparts  there  is  a  tendency  to 
run  into  new  debt.  But  the  satire  that  thus  enforces  the  old 
warning  against  living  upon  vague  hopes,  and  paying  ancient 
debts  by  contracting  new  ones,  never  presented  itself  in  more 
amusing  or  kindly  shape.  A  word  should  be  added  of  the  father 
of  the  girl  that  Herbert  marries.  Bill  Barley,  ex-ship's  purser,  a 
gouty,  bed-ridden,  drunken  old  rascal,  who  lies  on  his  back  in 
an  upper  floor  on  Mill  Pond  Bank  by  Chinks's  Basin,  where  he 
keeps,  weighs,  and  serves  out  the  family  stores  or  provisions, 
according  to  old  professional  practice,  with  one  eye  at  a  telescope 
which  is  fitted  on  his  bed  for  the  convenience  of  sweeping  the 
river.  This  is  one  of  those  sketches,  slight  in  itself  but  made  rich 
with  a  wealth  of  comic  observation,  in  which  Dickens's  humour 
took  especial  delight ;  and  to  all  this  part  of  the  story  there  is 
a  quaint  riverside  flavour  that  gives  it  amusing  reality  and  relish. 

Sending  the  chapters  that  contain  it,  which  open  the  third 
division  of  the  tale,  he  wrote  thus :  *  It  is  a  pity  that  the  third 
'  portion  cannot  be  read  all  at  once,  because  its  purpose  would 
'  be  much  more  apparent ;  and  the  pity  is  the  greater,  because 

*  the  general  turn  and  tone  of  the  working  out  and  winding  up, 

*  will  be  away  from  all  such  things  as  they  conventionally  go. 

*  But  what  must  be,  must  be.    As  to  the  planning  out  from  week 

*  to  week,  nobody  can  imagine  what  the  difficulty  is,  without 

*  trying.     But,  as  in  all  such  cases,  when  it  is  overcome  the 

*  pleasure  is  proportionate.     Two  months  more  will  see  me 

*  through  it,  I  trust.  All  the  iron  is  in  the  fire,  and  I  have 
'  "  only  "  to  beat  it  out.'  One  other  letter  throws  light  upon  an 
objection  taken  not  unfairly  to  the  too  great  speed  with  which 
the  heroine,  after  being  married,  reclaimed,  and  widowed,  is  in 
a  page  or  two  again  made  love  to,  and  remarried  by  the  hero. 


§  ni.] 


Great  Expectations. 


This  summary  proceeding  was  not  originally  intended.  But,  over  ^°  gg®^ ' 
and  above  its  popular  acceptance,  the  book  had  interested  some 
whose  opinions  Dickens  specially  valued  (Carlyle  among  them,*  I 
remember) ;  and  upon  Bulwer  Lytton  objecting  to  a  close  that 
should  leave  Pip  a  solitary  man,  Dickens  substituted  what  now 
stands.    *  You  will  be  surprised,'  he  wrote,  *  to  hear  that  I  have 

*  changed  the  end  of  Great  Expectations  from  and  after  Pip's 

*  return  to  Joe's,  and  finding  his  little  likeness  there.  Bulwer, 

*  who  has  been,  as  I  think  you  know,  extraordinarily  taken  by 

*  the  book,  so  strongly  urged  it  upon  me,  after  reading  the  proofs, 

*  and  supported  his  view  with  such  good  reasons,  that  I  resolved 
'  to  make  the  change.    You  shall  have  it  when  you  come  back  to 

*  town.  I  have  put  in  as  pretty  a  little  piece  of  writing  as  I  could, 

*  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  story  will  be  more  acceptable  through 
'  the  alteration.'  This  turned  out  to  be  the  case ;  but  the  first 
ending  nevertheless  seems  to  be  more  consistent  with  the  drift, 
as  well  as  natural  working  out,  of  the  tale,  and  for  this  reason  it 
is  preserved  in  a  note.t 


*  A  dear  friend  now  gone  would 
laughingly  relate  what  outcry  there 
used  to  be,  on  the  night  of  the  week 
when  a  number  was  due,  for  '  that  Pip 

*  nonsense  !  *  and  what  roars  of  laugh- 
ter followed,  though  at  first  it  was 
entirely  put  aside  as  not  on  any  ac- 
count to  have  time  wasted  over  it. 

t  There  was  no  Chapter  xx.  as  now ; 
but  the  sentence  which  opens  it  ('  For 

*  eleven  years  '  in  the  original,  altered 
to  '  eight  years  ')  followed  the  para- 
graph about  his  business  partnership 
with  Herbert,  and  led  to  Biddy's 
question  whether  he  is  sure  he  does 
not  fret  for  Estella  (*  I  am  sure  and 

*  certain,  Biddy'  as  originally  written, 
altered  to '  Ono— I  think  not,  Biddy  ') : 
from  which  point  here  was  the  close. 

*  It  was  two  years  more,  before  I  saw 

*  herself    I  had  heard  of  her  as  lead- 

*  ing  a  most  unhappy  life,  and  as 

*  being  separated  from  her  husband 

*  who  had  used  her  with  great  cruelty, 

*  and  who  had  become  quite  renowned 


as  a  compound  of  pride,  brutality, 
and  meanness.  I  had  heard  of  the 
death  of  her  husband  (from  an  acci- 
dent consequent  on  ill-treating  a 
horse),  and  of  her  being  married 
again  to  a  Shropshire  doctor,  who, 
against  his  interest,  had  once  very 
manfully  interposed,  on  an  occasion 
when  he  was  in  professional  attend- 
ance on  Mr.  Drummle,  and  had  wit- 
nessed some  outrageous  treatment  of  Original 
her.  I  had  heard  that  the  Shropshire  Great  Ex- 
doctor  was  not  rich,  and  that  P'ctations, 
lived  on  her  own  personal  fortune. 
I  was  in  England  again — in  London, 
and  walking  along  Piccadilly  with 
little  Pip  —  when  a  servant  came 
running  after  me  to  ask  would  I  step 
back  to  a  lady  in  a  carriage  who 
wished  to  speak  to  me.  It  was  a 
little  pony  carriage,  which  the  lady 
was  driving  ;  and  the  lady  and  I 
looked  sadly  enough  on  one  another, 
'*  I  am  greatly  changed,  I  know  ; 
"  but  I  thought  you  would  like  to 


362 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  IX. 


London 
1861. 

IV. 

CHRISTMAS  SKETCHES. 

Between  that  fine  novel,  which  was  issued  in  three  volumes  in 
the  autumn  of  1861,  and  the  completion  of  his  next  serial  story, 
were  interposed  three  sketches  in  his  happiest  vein  at  which 
1862-3-4.  everyone  laughed  and  cried  in  the  Christmas  times  of  1862,  '3, 
and  '4.  Of  the  waiter  in  Somebody's  Luggage  Dickens  has  himself 
spoken ;  and  if  any  theme  is  well  treated,  when,  from  the  point 
of  view  taken,  nothing  more  is  left  to  say  about  it,  that  bit  of  fun 
is  perfect.  Call  it  exaggeration,  grotesqueness,  or  by  what  hard 
name  you  will,  laughter  will  always  intercept  any  graver  criticism. 
Writing  from  Paris  of  what  he  was  himself  responsible  for  in  the 
Somebody's  articles  left  by  Somebody  with  his  wonderful  Waiter,  he  said  that 

Luggage. 

in  one  of  them  he  had  made  the  story  a  camera  obscura  of  certam 
French  places  and  styles  of  people ;  having  founded  it  on  some- 
thing he  had  noticed  in  a  French  soldier.    This  was  the  tale  of 
Little  Bebelle,  which  had  a  small  French  corporal  for  its  hero, 
and  became  highly  popular.    But  the  triumph  of  the  Christmas 
achievements  in  these  days  was  Mrs.  Lirriper.    She  took  her 
place  at  once  among  people  known  to  everybody ;  and  all  the 
Mrs.  Lirri-  world  talked  of  Major  Jemmy  Jackman,  and  his  friend  the  poor 
^isand^'  elderly  lodging-house  keeper  of  the  Strand,  with  her  miserable 
Legacy.      ^arcs  and  rivalries  and  worries,  as  if  they  had  both  been  as  long 
in  London  and  as  well  known  as  Norfolk-street  itself.    A  dozen 
volumes  could  not  have  told  more  than  those  dozen  pages  did. 
The  Legacy  followed  the  Lodgings  in  1864,  and  there  was  no 
falling  off  in  the  fun  and  laughter. 

**' shake  hands  with  Estella  too,  Pip.  *  her  voice,  and  in  her  touch,  she 
'  •*  Lift  up  that  pretty  child  and  let     *  gave  me  the  assurance,  that  suffering 

*  '*  me  kiss  it  !  "    (She  supposed  the     *  had  been  stronger  than  Miss  Havis- 

*  child,  I  think,  to  be  my  child.)    I     *  ham's  teaching,  and  had  given  her  a 

•  was  very  glad  afterwards  to  have  had     '  heart  to  understand  what  my  heart 

•  the  interview  j  for,  in  her  face  and  in     '  used  to  be.' 


Our  Mutual  Friend. 


363 


London : 
1864-s. 


OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

The  publication  of  Our  Mutual  Friend,  in  the  form  of  the 

earliest  stories,  extended  from  May  1864  to  November  1865. 

Four  years  earlier  he  had  chosen  this  title  as  a  good  one,  and 

he  held  to  it  through  much  objection.    Between  that  time  and 

his  actual  commencement  there  is  mention,  in  his  letters,  of  the 

three  leading  notions  on  which  he  founded  the  story.    In  his 

waterside  wanderings  during  his  last  book,  the  many  handbills 

he  saw  posted  up,  with  dreary  description  of  persons  drowned  in  First  no- 
tion. 

the  river,  suggested  the  'long  shore  men  and  their  ghastly  calling 
whom  he  sketched  in  Hexam  and  Riderhood.  *  I  think,'  he  had 
written,  *a  man,  young  and  perhaps  eccentric,  feigning  to  be 

*  dead,  and  being  dead  to  all  intents  and  purposes  external  to 

*  himself,  and  for  years  retaining  the  singular  view  of  life  and 

*  character  so  imparted,  would  be  a  good  leading  incident  for  a 

*  story ; '  and  this  he  partly  did  in  Rokesmith.    For  other  actors 

in  the  tale,  he  had  thought  of  ^  a  poor  impostor  of  a  man  marrying  Germ  of 

*  a  woman  for  her  money ;  she  marrying  him  for  his  money ; 
'  after  marriage  both  finding  out  their  mistake,  and  entering  into 

*  a  league  and  covenant  against  folks  in  general : '  with  whom  he 
had  proposed  to  connect  some  Perfectly  New  people.    *  Every- 

*  thing  new  about  them.    If  they  presented  a  father  and  mother, 

*  it  seemed  as  if  they  must  be  bran  new,  like  the  furniture  and 

*  the  carriages — shining  with  varnish,  and  just  home  from  the 

*  manufacturers.'  These  groups  took  shape  in  the  Lammles  and 
the  Veneerings.  *  I  must  use  somehow,*  is  the  remark  of  another 
letter,  *  the  uneducated  father  in  fustian  and  the  educated  boy  in 
spectacles  whom  Leech  and  I  saw  at  Chatham  ; '  of  which  a  hint 
is  in  Charley  Hexam  and  his  father.  The  benevolent  old  Jew 
whom  he  makes  the  unconscious  agent  of  a  rascal,  was  meant  to 
wipe  out  a  reproach  against  his  Jew  in  Oliver  Twist  as  bringing 
dislike  upon  the  religion  of  the  race  he  belonged  to.* 

*  On  this  reproach,  from  a  Jewish  ten  two  years  before.  *  Fagin,  in 
lady  whom  he  esteemed,  he  had  writ-     *  Oliver  Twisty  is  a  Jew,  because  it 


3^4 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,      [Book  IX. 


London:      Having  got  his  title  in  1861  it  was  his  hope  to  have  begun  in  '62. 
1864-5. 

 *  Alas  ! '  he  wrote  in  the  April  of  that  year,  *  I  have  hit  upon 

*  nothing  for  a  story.    Again  and  again  I  have  tried.    But  this 

*  odious  little  house '  (he  had  at  this  time  for  a  few  weeks  ex- 
Deiays  in  changed  GadsliiU  for  a  friend's  house  near  Kensington)  *  seems  to 
j^mning.    ^  ^^^^  stifled  and  darkened  my  invention.*    It  was  not  until  the 

autumn  of  the  following  year  he  saw  his  way  to  a  beginning. 

*  The  Christmas  number  has  come  round  again '  (30th  of  August 
1863) — *it  seems  only  yesterday  that  I  did  the  last — but  I  am  full 

*  of  notions  besides  for  the  new  twenty  numbers.    When  I  can 

*  clear  the  Christmas  stone  out  of  the  road,  I  think  I  can  dash 

*  into  it  on  the  grander  journey.'  He  persevered  through  much 
difficulty ;  which  he  described  six  weeks  later,  with  characteristic 
glance  at  his  own  ways  when  writing,  in  a  letter  from  the  office  ot 
his  journal.    *  I  came  here  last  night,  to  evade  my  usual  day  in 

*  the  week — in  fact  to  shirk  it — and  get  back  to  Gads  for  five  or 

*  six  consecutive  days.    My  reason  is,  that  I  am  exceedingly 

*  anxious  to  begin  my  book.    I  am  bent  upon  getting  to  work  at 

*  it  I  want  to  prepare  it  for  the  spring ;  but  I  am  determined 
Writing  in    *  not  to  begin  to  publish  with  less  than  five  numbers  done.    I  see 

advance. 

*  my  openmg  perfectly,  with  the  one  main  Ime  on  which  the  story 
'  is  to  turn  ;  and  if  I  don't  strike  while  the  iron  (meaning  myself) 

*  is  hot,  I  shall  drift  off  again,  and  have  to  go  through  all  this 

*  uneasiness  once  more.* 

He  had  written,  after  four  months,  very  nearly  three  numbers, 
when  upon  a  necessary  rearrangement  of  his  chapters  he  had  to 
hit  upon  a  new  subject  for  one  of  them.    *  While  I  was  con- 
New  iiius-    '  sidering'  (25th  of  February)  *what  it  should  be,  Marcus,*  who 

Irator. 

*  has  done  an  excellent  cover,  came  to  tell  me  of  an  extraordinary 

*  unfortunately  was  true,  of  the  time  *  of  his  race.* 

*  to  which  that  story  refers,  that  that  *  Mr.  Marcus  Stone  had,  upon  the 
•class  of  criminal  almost  invariably  separate  issue  of  the  7i2!/<?^7«/i7  CV/z^x, 

*  was  a  Jew.    But  surely  no  sensible  taken  the  place  of  Mr.  Hablot  Browne 

*  man  or  woman  of  your  persuasion  as  his  illustrator.    Hard  Times  and 

*  can  fail  to  observe — firstly,  that  all  the  first  edition  of  Great  Expectations 

*  the  rest  of  the  wicked  dramatis  were  not  illustrated ;  but  when  Pip's 
•/^jf«<^  are  Christians  ;  and,  second-  story  appeared  in  one  volume,  Mr. 

*  ly,  that  he  is  called  *'  The  Jew,"  not  Stone  contributed  designs  for  it. 

*  because  of  his  religion,  but  because 


Our  Mutuac  Friend. 


365 


'  trade  he  had  found  out,  through  one  of  his  painting  require-  ^^n^^* 

*  ments.    I  immediately  went  with  him  to  Saint  Giles's  to  look  at  — 

*  the  place,  and  found — what  you  will  see/  It  was  the  establish- 
ment of  Mr.  Venus,  preserver  of  animals  and  birds,  and  articu- 
lator of  human  bones ;  and  it  took  the  place  of  the  last  chapter 
of  No.  2,  which  was  then  transferred  to  the  end  of  No.  3.  But  a 
start  with  three  full  numbers  done,  though  more  than  enough  to 
satisfy  the  hardest  self-conditions  formerly,  did  not  satisfy  him 
now.  With  his  previous  thought  given  to  the  story,  with  his 
Memoranda  to  help  him,  with  the  people  he  had  in  hand  to  work 
it  with,  and  ready  as  he  still  was  to  turn  his  untiring  observation 

to  instant  use  on  its  behalf,  he  now  moved,  with  the  old  large  ^'JJjj^^"^ 
canvas  before  him,  somewhat  slowly  and  painfully.    *  If  I  were  to 

*  lose '  (29th  of  March)  'a  page  of  the  five  numbers  I  have  pro- 

*  posed  to  myself  to  be  ready  by  the  publication  day,  I  should 

*  feel  that  I  had  fallen  short.    I  have  grown  hard  to  satisfy,  and 

*  write  very  slowly.    And  I  have  so  much — not  fiction — that  will 

*  be  thought  of,  when  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it,  that  I  am  forced 

*  to  take  more  care  than  I  once  took.' 

The  first  number  was  launched  at  last,  on  the  first  of  May  \  and  fj^ d°op"' 
after  two  days  he  wrote  :  '■  Nothing  can  be  better  than  Our  ^^^^^^ 

*  Friend^  now  in  his  thirtieth  thousand,  and  orders  flowing  in  fast.' 
Yet  between  the  first  and  second  number  there  was  a  drop  of  five 
thousand,  strange  to  say,  for  the  larger  number  was  again  reached, 
and  much  exceeded,  before  the  book  closed.  *  This  leaves  me  ' 
(loth  of  June)  'going  round  and  round  like  a  carrier-pigeon  before 

*  swooping  on  number  seven.'  Thus  far  he  had  held  his  ground ; 
but  illness  came,  with  some  other  anxieties,  and  on  the  29th  of 
July  he  wrote  sadly  enough.    *  Although  I  have  not  been  wanting 

*  in  industry,  I  have  been  wanting  in  invention,  and  have  fallen  back 

*  with  the  book.    Looming  large  before  me  is  the  Christmas  work, 

*  and  I  can  hardly  hope  to  do  it  without  losing  a  number  of  Our 
'  Friend.    I  have  very  nearly  lost  one  already,  and  two  would 

*  take  one  half  of  my  whole  advance.  This  week  I  have  been  very 
'  unwell ;  am  still  out  of  sorts ;  and,  as  I  know  from  two  days' 

*  slow  experience,  have  a  very  mountain  to  climb  before  I  shall 

*  see  the  open  country  of  my  work.'    The  three  following  months 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  IX. 


London : 
1864-S. 


Death  of 
Leech. 


Lameness. 
Ante,-x\o. 
Post,  Book 
xi.  §3. 


In  the 
Staple- 
hurst 
accident. 


brought  hardly  more  favourable  report    *  I  have  not  done  my 

*  number.  This  death  of  poor  Leech  (I  suppose)  has  put  me  out 
*■  woefully.    Yesterday  and  the  day  before  I  could  do  nothing ; 

*  seemed  for  the  time  to  have  quite  lost  the  power ;  and  am  only 
'  by  slow  degrees  getting  back  into  the  track  to-day.'  He  rallied 
after  this,  and  satisfied  himself  for  a  while ;  but  in  February  1865 
that  formidable  illness  in  his  foot  broke  out  which,  at  certain 
times  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  deprived  him  more  or  less  of  his 
inestimable  solace  of  bodily  exercise.  In  April  and  May  he 
suffered  severely ;  and  after  trying  the  sea  went  abroad  for  more 
complete  change.    *Work  and  worry,  without  exercise,  would 

*  soon  make  an  end  of  me.    If  I  were  not  going  away  now, 

*  I  should  break  down.    No  one  knows  as  I  know  to-day  how 

*  near  to  it  I  have  been.' 

That  was  the  day  of  his  leaving  for  France,  and  the  day  of  his 
return  brought  these  few  hurried  words.    *  Saturday,  tenth  of 

*  June  1865.    I  was  in  the  terrific  Staplehurst  accident  yesterday, 

*  and  worked  for  hours  among  the  dying  and  dead.    I  was  in  the 

*  carriage  that  did  not  go  over,  but  went  off  the  line,  and  hung 

*  over  the  bridge  in  an  inexplicable  manner.  No  words  can 
'  describe  the  scene.*  I  am  away  to  Gads.'  Though  with 
characteristic  energy  he  resisted  the  effects  upon  himself  of  that 
terrible  ninth  of  June,  they  were  for  some  time  evident ;  and,  up 
to  the  day  of  his  death  on  its  fatal  fifth  anniversary,  were  perhaps 
never  wholly  absent    But  very  few  complaints  fell  from  him.    *  I 


*  He  thus  spoke  of  it  in  his  *  Post- 

*  script  in  lieu  of  Preface'  (dated  2nd  of 
September  1865),  which  accompanied 
the  last  number  of  the  story  under 
notice.   *  On  Friday  the  ninth  of  June 

*  in  the  present  year  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

*  Bofiin  (in  their  manuscript  dress  of 

*  receiving  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lammle  at 

*  breakfast)  were  on  the  South-Eastern 

*  Railway  with  me,  in  a  terribly  de- 

*  structive  accident.     When  I  had 

*  done  what  I  could  to  help  others,  I 

*  climbed  back  into  my  carriage  — 

*  nearly  turned  over  a  viaduct,  and 

*  caught  aslant  upoa  the  turn — to  <»x- 


'  tricate  the  worthy  couple.  They 

*  were  much  soiled,  but  otherwise  un- 

*  hurt.     The  same  happy  result  at- 

*  tended  Miss  Bella  Wilfer  on  her 

*  wedding-day,  and  Mr.  Riderhood 

*  inspecting  Bradley  Headstone's  red 

*  neckerchief  as  he  lay  asleep.    I  re. 

*  member  with  devout  thankfulness 

*  that  I  can  never  be  much  nearer 
'  parting  company  with  my  readers  for 

*  ever,  than  I  was  then,  until  there 

*  shall  be  written  against  my  life  the 

*  two  words  with  which  I  have  thi« 
<  day  clo-^ed  this  book— The  End  ' 


Our  Mutual  Friend. 


367 


*  am  curiously  weak — weak  as  if  I  were  recovering  from  a  long  ^^"^^^  • 

*  illness/    *I  becrin  to  feel  it  more  in  my  head.    I  sleep  well  and  

^  /  r  Effects  on 

*  eat  well ;  but  I  write  half  a  dozen  notes,  and  turn  faint  and  himself : 

*  sick/    *  I  am  getting  right,  though  still  low  in  pulse  and  very 

*  nervous.    Driving  into  Rochester  yesterday  I  felt  more  shaken 

*  than  I  have  since  the  accident*    '  I  cannot  bear  railway  travel- 

*  ling  yet.  A  perfect  conviction,  against  the  senses,  that  the 
'  carriage  is  down  on  one  side  (and  generally  that  is  the  left,  and 
'  not  the  side  on  which  the  carriage  in  the  accident  really  went 

*  over),  comes  upon  me  with  anything  like  speed,  and  is  in- 

*  expressibly  distressing.'    These  are  passages  from  his  letters  up 

to  the  close  of  June.    Upon  his  book  the  immediate  result  was  and  on  hit 
that  another  lost  number  was  added  to  the  losses  of  the  precedmg 
months,  and  *  alas  ! '  he  wote  at  the  opening  of  July,  *  for  the  two 

*  numbers  you  write  of !  There  is  only  one  in  existence.  I  have 
'  but  just  begun  the  other.'    '■  Fancy  ! '  he  added  next  day,  *  fancy 

*  my  having  under-written  number  sixteen  by  two  and  a  half 

*  pages — a  thing  I  have  not  done  since  Fickwick  I '    He  did  it 
once  with  Dombey,  and  was  to  do  it  yet  again. 

The  book  thus  begun  and  continued  under  adverse  influences, 
though  with  fancy  in  it,  descriptive  power,  and  characters  well 
designed,  will  never  rank  with  his  higher  efforts.  It  has  some 
pictures  of  a  rare  veracity  of  soul  amid  the  lowest  forms  of  social 
degradation,  placed  beside  others  of  sheer  falsehood  and  pretence 
amid  unimpeachable  social  correctness,  which  lifted  the  writer  to 
his  old  place  ;  but  the  judgment  of  it  on  the  whole  must  be,  that 
it  wants  freshness  and  natural  development.  This  indeed  will  be 
most  freely  admitted  by  those  who  feel  most  strongly  that  all  the 
old  cunning  of  the  master  hand  is  yet  in  the  wayward  loving 
Bella  Wilfer,  in  the  vulgar  canting  Podsnap,  and  in  the  dolls'  The  doiu' 
dressmaker  Jenny  Wren,  whose  keen  little  quaint  weird  ways,  and  maker, 
precocious  wit  sharpened  by  trouble,  are  fitted  into  a  character  as 
original  and  delightfully  conceived  as  it  is  vividly  carried  through 
to  the  last.  A  dull  coarse  web  her  small  life  seems  made  of ;  but 
even  from  its  taskwork,  which  is  undertaken  for  childhood  itself, 
there  are  glittering  threads  cast  across  its  woof  and  warp  of  care. 
The  unconscious  philosophy  of  her  tricks  and  manners  has  in  it 


368 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX 


London  :  more  of  the  Subtler  vein  of  the  satire  aimed  at  in  the  book,  than 
even  the  voices  of  society  which  the  tale  begins  and  ends  with. 
In  her  very  kindliness  there  is  the  touch  of  malice  that  shows  a 
A  master-  childish  playfulucss  familiar  with  unnatural  privations ;  this  gives 
a  depth  as  well  as  tenderness  to  her  humours  which  entitles  them 
to  rank  with  the  writer's  happiest  things  j  and  though  the  odd 
little  creature's  talk  is  incessant  when  she  is  on  the  scene,  it  has 
the  individuality  that  so  seldom  tires.  It  is  veritably  her  own 
small  '  trick  '  and  *  manner,'  and  is  never  mistakeable  for  any  one 
else's.  *  I  have  been  reading,'  Dickens  wrote  to  me  from  France 
while  he  was  writing  the  book,  *  a  capital  little  story  by  Edmond 

*  About — The  Noiarfs  Nose.    I  have  been  trying  other  books; 

*  but  so  infernally  conversational,  that  I  forget  who  the  people 

*  are  before  they  have  done  talking,  and  don't  in  the  least 

*  remember  what  they  talked  about  before  when  they  begin 

*  talking  again  ! '  The  extreme  contrast  to  his  own  art  could  not 
be  defined  more  exactly ;  and  other  examples  from  this  tale  will 
be  found  in  the  differing  members  of  the  Wilfer  family,  in  the 
riverside  people  at  the  Fellowship  Porters,  in  such  marvellous 
serio-comic  scenes  as  that  of  Rogue  Riderhood's  restoration  from 
drowning,  and  in  those  short  and  simple  annals  of  Betty  Higden's 
life  and  death  which  might  have  given  saving  virtue  to  a  book 
more  likely  than  this  to  perish  prematurely.  It  has  not  the 
creative  power  which  crowded  his  earlier  page,  and  transformed 
into  popular  realities  the  shadows  of  his  fancy ;  but  the  observation 
and  humour  he  excelled  in  are  not  wanting  to  it,  nor  had  there 

First  and  been,  in  his  first  completed  work,  more  eloquent  or  generous 
pleading  for  the  poor  and  neglected,  than  this  last  completed  work 
contains.    Betty  Higden  finishes  what  Oliver  Twist  began. 


f  VI.]  Dr.  MarigolcTs  Prescriptions, 


369 


London ; 
1865. 

VI. 

DR.  MARIGOLD'S  PRESCRIPTIONS. 

He  had  scarcely  closed  that  book  in  September,  wearied  some- 
what with  a  labour  of  invention  which  had  not  been  so  free  or 
self-sustaining  as  in  the  old  facile  and  fertile  days,  when  his 
customary  contribution  to  Christmas  became  due  from  him ;  and 
his  fancy,  let  loose  in  a  narrower  field,  resumed  its  old  luxury  of 
enjoyment.   Here  are  notices  of  it  from  his  letters.   *  If  people  at  a  Cheap 

*  large  understand  a  Cheap  Jack,  my  part  of  the  Christmas 

*  number  will  do  well.    It  is  wonderfully  like  the  real  thing,  of 

*  course  a  little  refined  and  humoured.'    *  I  do  hope  that  in  the 

*  beginning  and  end  of  this  Christmas  number  you  will  find  some- 

*  thing  that  will  strike  you  as  being  fresh,  forcible,  and  full  of 

*  spirits.'    He  described  its  mode  of  composition  afterwards. 

*  Tired  with  Our  Mutual^  I  sat  down  to  cast  about  for  an  idea, 

*  with  a  depressing  notion  that  I  was,  for  the  moment,  over- 

*  worked.  Suddenly,  the  little  character  that  you  will  see,  and 
'  all  belonging  to  it,  came  flashing  up  in  the  most  cheerful 

manner,  and  I  had  only  to  look  on  and  leisurely  describe  it.' 
This  was  Dr,  Marigold's  Prescriptions^  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  all  the  pieces  selected  for  his  readings,  and  a  splendid  example 
of  his  humour,  pathos,  and  character.    *  I  received  your  letter  in 

*  praise  of  Dr.  Marigold,'  he  writes  to  Lord  Lytton  (31st  of 
December),   'and  read  and  re-read  all  your  generous  words, 

*  fifty  times  over,  with  inexpressible  delight.    I  cannot  tell  you 

*  how  they  gratified  and  affected  me.'  The  piece  was  worthy  of 
the  praise.  It  expressed,  as  perfectly  as  anything  he  has  ever 
done,  that  which  constitutes  in  itself  very  much  of  the  genms  of 
all  his  writing,  the  wonderful  neighbourhood  in  this  life  of  ours, 
of  serious  and  humorous  things ;  the  laughter  close  to  the  pathos, 
but  never  touching  it  with  ridicule.  There  were  two  more 
Christmas  pieces  before  he  made  his  last  visit  to  America  :  Barbox 
Brothers  with  The  Boy  at  Mugby  Station,  and  No  Thoroughfare : 
the  last  a  joint  piece  of  v^ork  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  who  during 

VOL.  II.  B  B 


370 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  IX. 


London  :  Dickcns's  abscnce  in  the  States  transformed  it  into  a  play  for 
1865.  .         _  _     ^  ^  ^ 

  Mr.  Fechter,  with  a  view  to  which  it  had  been  planned  originally. 

Minor        There  were  also  two  papers  written  for  first  publication  in 

stones,  291. 

America,  George  Silverman's  Explanation^  and  Holiday  Romance^ 
containing  about  the  quantity  of  half  a  shilling  number  of  his 
ordinary  serials,  and  paid  for  at  a  rate  unexampled  in  literature. 
They  occupied  him  not  many  days  in  the  writing,  and  he  received 
a  thousand  pounds  for  them.  The  same  had  before  been  paid 
for  Hunted  Down.  Reserving  for  mention  in  its  place  what  was 
written  after  his  return,  it  will  be  proper  here  to  interpose,  before 
Ante,  240.  the  closing  word  of  my  criticism,  some  account  of  the  manuscript 
volume  found  among  his  papers  containing  memoranda  for  use  in 
his  writings ;  and  covering  the  period  from  the  opening  of  Little 
Dorr  it  to  the  close  of  Our  Mutual  Friend, 


VII. 

HINTS  FOR  BOOKS  WRITTEN  AND  UNWRITTEN. 
1855-1865. 

1855-65-  Dickens  began  the  Book  of  Memoranda  for  possible  use  in  his 
work,  to  which  occasional  reference  has  been  made,  in  January 
1855,  six  months  before  the  first  page  of  Little  Dorr  it  y^djs,  written ; 
and  I  find  no  allusion  leading  me  to  suppose,  except  in  one  very 
doubtful  instance,  that  he  had  made  addition  to  its  entries,  or 
been  in  the  habit  of  resorting  to  them,  after  the  date  of  Our 
Mutual  Friend.  It  seems  to  comprise  that  interval  of  ten  years 
in  his  life. 

Book  of  In  it  were  put  down  any  hints  or  suggestions  that  occurred 
moranda-  to  him.  A  mere  piece  of  imagery  or  fancy,  it  might  be  at  one 
time;  at  another  the  outline  of  a  subject  or  a  character;  then  a 
bit  of  description  or  dialogue;  no  order  or  sequence  being 
observed  in  any.  Titles  for  stories  were  set  down  too,  and 
groups  of  names  for  the  actors  in  them ;  not  the  least  curious  of 
the  memoranda  belonging  to  this  class.    More  rarely,  entry  is 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books. 


371 


made  of  some  oddity  of  speech ;  and  he  has  thus  preserved  in  it,   ^  g'^^g^  • 

verbaiim.  et  literatim,  what  he  declared  to  have  been  as  startling  

a  message  as  he  ever  received.  A  confidential  servant  at  Tavis- 
tock House,  having  conferred  on  some  proposed  changes  in  his 
bed-room  with  the  party  that  was  to  do  the  work,  delivered  this  Startling 

message. 

ultimatum  to  her  master.    *  The  gas-fitter  says,  sir,  that  he  can't 

*  alter  the  fitting  of  your  gas  in  your  bed-room  without  taking  up 

*  almost  the  ole  of  your  bed-room  floor,  and  pulling  your  room  to 

*  pieces.    He  says,  of  course  you  can  have  it  done  if  you  wish, 

*  and  he'll  do  it  for  you  and  make  a  good  job  of  it,  but  he 

*  would  have  to  destroy  your  room  first,  and  go  entirely  under 

*  the  jistes.'  * 

It  is  very  interesting  in  this  book,  last  legacy  as  it  is  of  the 
literary  remains  of  such  a  writer,  to  compare  the  way  in  which 
fancies  were  worked  out  with  their  beginnings  entered  in  its 
pages.  Those  therefore  will  first  be  taken  that  in  some  form  or 
other  appeared  afterwards  in  his  writings,  with  such  reference 
to  the  latter  as  may  enable  the  reader  to  make  comparison  for 
himself. 

*  Our  House.    Whatever  it  is,  it  is  in  a  first-rate  situation,  and  Notions 

for  Little 

*  a  fashionable  neighbourhood.    (Auctioneer  called  it  "a  gentle- 

*  manly  residence.")    A  series  of  little  closets  squeezed  up  into 

*  the  corner  of  a  dark  street — but  a  Duke's  Mansion  round  the 

*  corner.    The  whole  house  just  large  enough  to  hold  a  vile 

*  smell.    The  air  breathed  in  it,  at  the  best  of  times,  a  kind  of 

*  Distillation  of  Mews.'    He  made  it  the  home  of  the  Barnacles 
in  Little  Dorrit. 

What  originally  he  meant  to  express  by  Mrs.  Clennam  in  the 
same  story  has  narrower  limits,  and  a  character  less  repellent,  in 
the  Memoranda  than  it  assumed  in  the  book.    '  Bed-ridden  (or 

*  room-ridden)  twenty — five-and-twenty — years ;   any  length  of 

*  time.    As  to  most  things,  kept  at  a  standstill  all  the  while. 

*  Thinking  of  altered  streets  as  the  old  streets — changed  things 

*  From  the  same  authority  pro-  made  note  in  the  Memoranda.  'Well, 
ceeded,  in  answer  to  a  casual  question  *  sir,  your  clothes  is  all  shabby,  and 
one  day,  a  description  of  the  condition     *  your  boots  is  all  burst.' 

of  his  wardrobe  of  which  he  has  also 


372 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  ix. 


London ; 
1855-65. 


Too  im- 
partial 
between 
evil  and 
good. 


River  and 
ferryman. 


*  as  the  unchanged  things — the  youth  or  girl  I  quarrelled  with  all 

*  those  years  ago,  as  the  same  youth  or  girl  now.    Brought  out  of 

*  doors  by  an  unexpected  exercise  of  my  latent  strength  of  cha- 

*  racter,  and  then  how  strange  ! ' 

One  of  the  people  of  the  same  story  who  becomes  a  prominent 
actor  in  it,  Henry  Gowan,  a  creation  on  which  he  prided  himself 
as  forcible  and  new,  seems  to  have  risen  to  his  mind  in  this  way. 
'  I  affect  to  believe  that  I  would  do  anything  myself  for  a  ten- 

*  pound  note,  and  that  anybody  else  would.   I  affect  to  be  always 

*  book-keeping  in  every  man's  case,  and  posting  up  a  little  account 
'  of  good  and  evil  with  every  one.     Thus  the  greatest  rascal 

*  becomes  "  the  dearest  old  fellow,"  and  there  is  much  less 

*  difference  than  you  would  be  inclined  to  suppose  between  an 
'  honest  man  and  a  scoundrel.    While  I  affect  to  be  finding  good 

*  in  most  men,  I  am  in  reality  decrying  it  where  it  really  is,  and 
'  setting  it  up  where  it  is  not.  Might  not  a  presentation  of  this 
'  far  from  uncommon  class  of  character,  if  I  could  put  it  strongly 
'  enough,  be  likely  to  lead  some  men  to  reflect,  and  change  a 
*■  little  ?    I  think  it  has  never  been  done.' 

In  Little  Dorrit  also  will  be  found  a  picture  which  seems  to 
live  with  a  more  touching  effect  in  his  first  pleasing  fancy  of  it. 
'  The  ferryman  on  a  peaceful  river,  who  has  been  there  from 

*  youth,  who  lives,  who  grows  old,  who  does  well,  who  does  ill, 

*  who  changes,  who  dies — the  river  runs  six  hours  up  and  six 
'  hours  down,  the  current  sets  off  that  point,  the  same  allowance 

*  must  be  made  for  the  drifting  of  the  boat,  the  same  tune  is 

*  always  played  by  the  rippling  water  against  the  prow.' 

Here  was  an  entry  made  when  the  thought  occurred  to  him  of 
the  close  of  old  Dorrit's  Hfe.    *  First  sign  of  the  father  failing  and 

*  breaking  down.  Cancels  long  interval.  Begins  to  talk  about 
'  the  turnkey  who  first  called  him  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea — 

*  as  if  he  were  still  living.    "  Tell  Bob  I  want  to  speak  to  him. 

*  "  See  if  he  is  on  the  Lock,  my  dear."  '  And  here  was  the  first 
notion  of  Clennam's  reverse  of  fortune.  '  His  falling  into  diflSculty, 

*  and  himself  imprisoned  in  the  Marshalsea.    Then  she,  out  of  all 

*  her  wealth  and  changed  station,  comes  back  ia  her  old  dress^ 
'  and  devotes  herself  in  the  old  way.' 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books, 


373 


He  seems  to  have  designed,  for  the  sketches  of  society  in  the  London: 

.  1855-65. 
same  tale,  a  *  Full-length  portrait  of  his  lordship,  surrounded  by  

.    ^ly  lord 

*  worshippers  : '  of  which,  beside  that  brief  memorandum,  only  his  and  his 

\  followers. 

first  draft  of  the  general  outline  was  worked  at.    *  Sensible  men 

*  enough,  agreeable  men  enough,  independent  men  enough  in  a 

*  certain  way ; — but  the  moment  they  begin  to  circle  round  my 
'  lord,  and  to  shine  with  a  borrowed  light  from  his  lordship,  heaven 

*  and  earth  how  mean  and  subservient !    What  a  competition  and 

*  outbidding  of  each  other  in  servility.' 

The  last  of  the  Memoranda  hints  used  in  the  story  whose 
difficulties  at  its  opening  seem  first  to  have  suggested  them,  ran 
thus :  *  The  unwieldy  ship  taken  in  tow  by  the  snorting  little 

*  steam  tug ' — ^by  which  was  prefigured  the  patriarch  Casby  and 
his  agent  Panks. 

In  a  few  lines  are  the  germ  of  the  tale  called  Hunted  Down :  Hunted 

°  _  _  Down. 

*  Devoted  to  the  Destruction  of  a  man.    Revenge  built  up  on 

*  love.    The  secretary  in  the  Wainewright  case,  who  had  fallen 

*  in  love  (or  supposed  he  had)  with  the  murdered  girl.' — The  hint 
on  which  he  worked  in  his  description  of  the  villain  of  that  story, 
is  also  in  the  Memoranda.  '  The  man  with  his  hair  parted  straight 

*  up  the  front  of  his  head,  like  an  aggravating  gravel- walk.  Always 
'  presenting  it  to  you.    "  Up  here,  if  you  please.    Neither  to  the 

*  "  right  nor  left    Take  me  exactly  in  this  direction.    Straight  up 

*  **  here.    Come  off  the  grass — " ' 

His  first  intention  as  to  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  was  to  write  it  Taie  of 

^  Two  Citiea. 

upon  a  plan  proposed  in  this  manuscript  book.  *  How  as  to  a 
<  story  in  two  periods — with  a  lapse  of  time  between,  like  a 

*  French  Drama?     Titles  for  such   a  notion.     Time!  The 

*  Leaves  of  the  Forest.    Scattered  Leaves.     The  Great 

*  Wheel.    Round  and  Round.    Old  Leaves.    Long  Ago. 

*  Far  Apart.     Fallen  Leaves.     Five  and  Twenty  Years. 

*  Years  and  Years.     Rolling  Years.     Day  after  Day. 

*  Felled  Trees.    Memory  Carton.    Rolling  Stones.  Two 

*  Generations.'    That  special  title  of  Memory  Carton  shows  that  First  germ 

of  Cartotu 

what  led  to  the  greatest  success  of  the  book  as  written  was  always 
in  his  mind  ;  and  another  of  the  memoranda  is  this  rough  hint  of 
the  character   itself     *  The  drunken  ? — dissipated  ? — What  ? — 


374 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London;  *  Lton — and  his  Jackall  and  Primer,  stealing  down  to  him  at 
— — '  unwonted  hours.' 

'?wo'cities.  In  conncction  with  the  same  book,  another  fancy  may  be 
copied  from  which  the  domesticities  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cruncher 
were  taken.    *  A  man,  and  his  wife — or  daughter — or  niece. 

*  The  man,  a  reprobate  and  ruffian ;  the  woman  (or  girl)  with 

*  good  in  her,  and  with  compunctions.    He  believes  nothing,  and 

*  defies    everything ;   yet  has   suspicions   always,  that  she  is 

*  "  praying  against "  his  evil  schemes,  and  making  them  go  wrong. 

*  He  is  very  much  opposed  to  this,  and  is  always  angrily  harping 
'  on  it.  "  If  she  must  pray,  why  can't  she  pray  in  their  favour, 
'  "  instead  of  going  against  'em  ?    She's  always  ruining  me — she 

*  "always  is — and  calls  that,  Duty  !  There's  a  religious  person  ! 
'  "  Calls  it  Duty  to  fly  in  my  face  !  Calls  it  Duty  to  go  sneaking 
*■  "  against  me  !  "  ' 

'prieUd  '^^^  studies  of  Silas  Wegg  and  his  patron  as  they  exist  in  Our 

Mutual  Friend,  are  hardly  such  good  comedy  as  in  the  form 
which  the  first  notion   seems   to  have  intended.    *  Gibbon's 

*  Decline  and  Fall.    The  two  characters.    One  reporting  to  the 

*  other  as  he  reads.    Both  getting  confused  as  to  whether  it  is 

*  not  all  going  on  now.'  In  the  same  story  may  be  traced,  more 
or  less  clearly,  other  fancies  which  had  found  their  first  expression 
in  the  Memoranda.    A  touch  for  Bella  Wilfer  is  here.    *  Buying 

*  poor  shabby — father  ? — a  new  hat.  So  incongruous  that  it 
^  makes  him  like  African  King  Boy,  or  King  George ;  who  is 

*  usually  full  dressed  when  he  has  nothing  upon  him  but  a 

*  cocked  hat  or  a  waistcoat.'  Here  undoubtedly  is  the  voice 
of  Podsnap.    '  I  stand  by  my  friends  and  acquaintances ; — 

*  not  for  their  sakes,  but  because  they  are  my  friends  and  ac- 

*  quaintances.    /  know  them,  /  have  licensed  them,  they  have 

*  taken  out  my  certificate.  Ergo,  I  champion  them  as  myself.' 
To  the  same  redoubtable  person  another  trait  clearly  belongs. 

*  And  by  denying  a  thing,  supposes  that  he  altogether  puts  it  out 

*  of  existence.'  A  third  very  perfectly  expresses  the  boy, 
ready  for  mischief,  who  does  all  the  work  there  is  to  be  done 
in  Eugene  Wrayburn's  place  of  business.    '  The  office  boy  for 

*  ever  looking  out  of  window,  who  never  has  anything  to  do.' 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books. 


375 


The  poor  wayward  purposeless  good-hearted  master  of  the  boy,  London 

1855-65. 

Eugene  himself,  is  as  evidently  in  this  :   *  If  they  were  great  

*  things,  I,  the  untrustworthy  man  in  little  things,  would  do  them 

*  earnestly — But  O  No,  I  wouldn't ! '  What  follows  has  a  more 
direct  reference;  being  indeed  almost  literally  copied  in  the 
story.    *  As  to  the  question  whether  I,  Eugene,  lying  ill  and  sick 

*  even  unto  death,  may  be  consoled  by  the  representation  that 

*  coming  through  this  illness,  I  shall  begin  a  new  life,  and  have 

*  energy  and  purpose  and  all  I  have  yet  wanted :  "  /  hope  I 

*  should,  but  I  know  I  shouldn't.    Let  me  die,  my  dear."  * 

Other  fancies  preserved  in  his  Memoranda  were  left  wholly  un-  Notions 

.   .  1  .  never 

employed,  receivmg  from  him  no  more  permanent  form  of  any  used, 
kind  than  that  which  they  have  in  this  touching  record;  and 
what  most  people  would  probably  think  the  most  attractive  and 
original  of  all  the  thoughts  he  had  thus  set  down  for  future  use, 
are  those  that  were  never  used. 

Here  were  his  first  rough  notes  for  the  opening  of  a  story.  Proposed 

openings 

*  Beginning  with  the  breaking  up  of  a  large  party  of  guests  at  a  stories. 
*■  country  house  :  house  left  lonely  with  the  shrunken  family  in 

*  it :  guests  spoken  of,  and  introduced  to  the  reader  that  way. — 

*  Or,  beginning  with  a  house  abandoned  by  a  family  fallen  into 

*  reduced  circumstances.    Their  old  furniture  there,  and  number- 

*  less  tokens  of  their  old  comforts.    Inscriptions  under  the  bells 

*  downstairs — **Mr.  John's  Room,"     Miss  Caroline's  Room." 

*  Great  gardens  trimly  kept  to  attract  a  tenant  :  but  no  one  in 

*  them.     A  landscape  without  figures.     Billiard  room :  table 

*  covered  up,  like  a  body.  Great  stables  without  horses,  and  great 

*  coach-houses  without  carriages.    Grass  growing  in  the  chinks  of 

*  the  stone-paving,  this  bright  cold  winter  day.  Downhills' 
Another  opening  had  also  suggested  itself  to  him.    *  Open  a 

*  story  by  bringing  two  strongly  contrasted  places  and  strongly 

*  contrasted  sets  of  people,  into  the  connexion  necessary  for  the 

*  story,  by  means  of  an  electric  message.    Describe  the  message 

*  — be  the  message — flashing  along  through  space,  over  the  earth, 

*  and  under  the  sea.'  *  Connected  with  which  in  some  way  would 

*  The  Hate  when  this  fancy  dropped  into  his  Memoranda  is  fixed  by  the 


376 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London:  seem  to  be  this  other  notion,  foUowinsr  it  in  the  Memoranda. 
1855-65-  ° 
 '  Representing  London — or  Paris,  or  any  other  great  place — in 

*  the  new  light  of  being  actually  unknown  to  all  the  people  in  the 

*  story,  and  only  taking  the  colour  of  their  fears  and  fancies  and 

*  opinions.  So  getting  a  new  aspect,  and  being  unlike  itself.  An 
*■  odd  unlikeness  of  itself 

The  subjects  for  stories  are  various,  and  some  are  striking. 
There  was  one  he  clung  to  much,  and  thought  of  frequently  as  in 
a  special  degree  available  for  a  series  of  papers  in  his  periodical ; 
but  when  he  came  to  close  quarters  with  it  the  difificulties  were 
man  fi^t     found  to  be  too  great.    *  English  landscape.    The  beautiful 
EngiLd      '  prospect,  trim  fields,  clipped  hedges,  everything  so  neat  and 

*  orderly — gardens,  houses,  roads.    Where  are  the  people  who  do 

*  all  this  ?    There  must  be  a  great  many  of  them,  to  do  it. 

*  Where  are  they  all  ?    And  are  they^  too,  so  well  kept  and  so  fair 

*  to  see  ?    Suppose  the  foregoing  to  be  wrought  out  by  an 

*  Englishman  :  say,  from  China :  who  knows  nothing  about  his 

*  native  country.'  To  which  may  be  added  a  fancy  that  savours 
of  the  same  mood  of  discontent,  political  and  social.    *  How  do  I 

Guiiiverian.  '  know  that  I,  a  man,  am  to  learn  from  insects — unless  it  is  to 

*  learn  how  little  my  littlenesses  are  ?    All  that  botheration  in  the 

*  hive  about  the  queen  bee,  may  be,  in  little,  me  and  the  court 

*  circular.' 

A  domestic  story  he  had  met  with  in  the  State  Trials  struck 
him  greatly  by  its  capabilities,  and  I  may  preface  it  by  mentioning 
another  subject,  not  entered  in  the  Memoranda,  which  for  a 
long  time  impressed  him  as  capable  of  attractive  treatment.  It 
Touching     was  after  reading  one  of  the  witch-trials  that  this  occurred  to 

fancy. 

him  j  and  the  heroine  was  to  be  a  girl  who  for  a  special  purpose 
had  taken  a  witch's  disguise,  and  whose  trick  was  not  discovered 

following  passage  in  a  letter  to  me  of  '  strongly  contrasted  sets  of  people, 

the  25th  of  August  1862,    '  I  am  try-  *  with  which  and  with  whom  the  story 

*  ing  to  coerce  my  thoughts  into  ham-  *  is  to  rest,  through  the  agency  of  an 
'  mering  out  the  Christmas  number.  *  electric  message.  I  think  a  fine  thing 

*  And  I  have  an  idea  of  opening  a  *  might  be  made  of  the  message  itself 

*  book  (not  the  Christmas  number— a  *  shooting  over  the  land  and  under  the 

*  book)  by  bringing  together    two  *  sea,  and  it  would  be  a  curious  way 

*  strongly  contrasted  places  and  two  *  of  soundin  the  key-note.' 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books, 


377 


until  she  was  actually  at  the  stake.    Here  is  the  State  Trials  London  : 

1855-65, 

story  as  told  by  Dickens.    *  There  is  a  case  in  the  State  Trials,  — 

*  where  a  certain  officer  made  love  to  a  (supposed)  miser's 

*  daughter,  and  ultimately  induced  her  to  give  her  father  slow  ^^^^JJ^g^^^^ 

*  poison,  while  nursing  him  in  sickness.    Her  father  discovered  Trials. 

*  it,  told  her  so,  forgave  her,  and  said  "  Be  patient  my  dear — I 

*  "  shall  not  live  long,  even  if  I  recover  :  and  then  you  shall  have 

*  *'all  my  wealth."    Though  penitent  then,  she  afterwards  poi- 

*  soned  him  again  (under  the  same  influence),  and  successfully. 

*  Whereupon  it  appeared  that  the  old  man  had  no  money  at  all, 

*  and  had  lived  on  a  small  annuity  which  died  with  him,  though 

*  always  feigning  to  be  rich.    He  had  loved  this  daughter  with 

*  great  affection.' 

A  theme  verging  closely  on  ground  that  some  might  think 
dangerous,  is  sketched  in  the  following  fancy.    *  The  father 

*  (married  young)  who,  in  perfect  innocence,  venerates  his  son's 

*  young  wife,  as  the  realization  of  his  ideal  of  woman.    (He  not 

*  happy  in  his  own  choice.)    The  son  slights  her,  and  knows 

*  nothing  of  her  worth.  The  father  watches  her,  protects  her, 
'  labours  for  her,  endures  for  her, — is  for  ever  divided  between 

*  his  strong  natural  affection  for  his  son  as  his  son,  and  his  re- 

*  sentment  against  him  as  this  young  creature's  husband.'  Here 
is  another,  less  dangerous,  which  he  took  from  an  actual  occurrence 
made  known  to  him  when  he  was  at  Bonchurch.    *  The  idea  of 

*  my  being  brought  up  by  my  mother  (me  the  narrator),  my  father 

*  being  dead ;  and  growing  up  in  this  belief  until  I  find  that  my 

*  father  is  the  gentleman  I  have  sometimes  seen,  and  oftener 

*  heard  of,  who  has  the  handsome  young  wife,  and  the  dog  I 

*  once  took  notice  of  when  I  was  a  little  child,  and  who  lives  in 
'  the  great  house  and  drives  about.' 

Very  admirable  is  this.    *  The  girl  separating  herself  from  the 

*  lover  who  has  shewn  himself  unworthy — loving  him  still —  rLubk. 

*  living  single  for  his  sake — but  never  more  renewing  their  old 

*  relations.    Coming  to  him  when  they  are  both  grown  old,  and 

*  nursing  him  in  his  last  illness.'    Nor  is  the  following  less  so. 

*  Two  girls  mis-marrying  two  men.    The  man  who  has  evil  in 

*  him,  dragging  the  superior  woman  down.    The  man  who  has 


378 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  IX. 


London  :   ^  good  in  him,  raising  the  inferior  woman  up.'    Dickens  would 

1855-65.  ^ 

  have  been  at  his  best  in  working  out  both  fancies. 

Over-in-         In  some  of  the  most  amusing  of  his  sketches  of  character, 

teresting. 

women  also  take  the  lead.  *  The  lady  un  peu  pass^e,  who  is 
'  determined  to  be  interesting.    No  matter  how  much  I  love  that 

*  person — nay,  the  more  so  for  that  very  reason — I  must  flatter, 

*  and  bother,  and  be  weak  and  apprehensive  and  nervous,  and 
'  what  not.    If  I  were  well  and  strong,  agreeable  and  self-denying, 

*  my  friend  might  forget  me.'  Another  not  remotely  belonging  to 
Sentimen-  the  same  family  is  as  neatly  hit  off.  '  The  sentimental  woman 
Fate.         *  feels  that  the  comic,  undesigning,  unconscious  man,  is  "  Her 

*  "  Fate." — I  her  fate  ?    God  bless  my  soul,  it  puts  me  into  a  cold 

*  perspiration  to  think  of  it.  /  her  fate  ?  How  can  /  be  her 
'  fate  ?    I  don't  mean  to  be.   I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do 

*  with  her. —  Sentimental  woman  perceives   nevertheless  that 

*  Destiny  must  be  accomplished.' 

Other  portions  of  a  female  group  are  as  humorously  sketched 
and  hardly  less  entertaining.    *  The  enthusiastically  complimen- 
'  tary  person,  who  forgets  you  in  her  own  flowery  prosiness  :  as — 
Female       <  "  I  have  no  nccd  to  say  to  a  person  of  your  genius  and 

groups. 

'  "  feeling,  and  wide  range  of  experience " — and  then,  being 

*  shortsighted,  puts  up  her  glass  to  remember  who  you  are.' — 

*  Two  sisters '  (these  were  real  people  known  to  him).    *  One 

*  going  in  for  being  generally  beloved  (which  she  is  not  by  any 
'  means) ;  and  the  other  for  being  generally  hated  (which  she 

*  needn't  be).' — *  The  bequeathed  maid-servant,  or  friend.   Left  as 

*  a  legacy.  And  a  devil  of  a  legacy  too.' — *  The  woman  who  is 
'  never  on  any  account  to  hear  of  anything  shocking.    For  whom 

*  the  world  is  to  be  of  barley-sugar.' — '  The  lady  who  lives  on  her 

*  enthusiasm  ;  and  hasn't  a  jot' — '  Bright-eyed  creature  selling 

*  jewels.  The  stones  and  the  eyes.'  Much  significance  is  in  the 
last  few  words.  One  may  see  to  what  uses  Dickens  would  have 
turned  them. 

A  more  troubled  note  is  sounded  in  another  of  these  female 
characters.  *  I  am  a  common  woman — fallen.  Is  it  devilry  in 
<  me — is  it  a  wicked  comfort — what  is  it — that  induces  me  to  be 

*  always  tempting  other  women  down,  while  I  hate  myself !  ' 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books. 


379 


This  next,  with  as  much  truth  in  it,  goes  deeper  than  the  last.   London  : 

.  1855-65. 
'  The  prostitute  who  will  not  let  one  certain  youth  approach  her.   

*  "  O  let  there  be  some  one  in  the  world,  who  having  an  inclina-  women. 
'  "  tion  towards  me  has  not  gratified  it,  and  has  not  known  me 

*  "  in  my  degradation  !  "    She  almost  loving  him. — Suppose,  too, 

*  this  touch  in  her  could  not  be  beHeved  in  by  his  mother  or 

*  mistress :  by  some  handsome  and  proudly  virtuous  woman, 

*  always  revolting  from  her.'  A  more  agreeable  sketch  than  either 
follows,  though  it  would  not  please  M.  Taine  so  well.   '  The  little 

*  baby-like  married  woman — so  strange  in  her  new  dignity,  and 

*  talking  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  of  her  sisters  "  and  all  of  them  " 

*  at  home.  Never  from  home  before,  and  never  going  back  again.' 
Another  from  the  same  manuscript  volume  not  less  attractive, 
which  was  sketched  from  his  sister-in-law  in  his  own  home,  I  gave  ^- 
upon  a  former  page. 

The  female  character  in  its  relations  with  the  opposite  sex 
has  lively  illustration  in  the  Memoranda.    'The  man  who  is 

*  governed  by  his  wife,  and  is   heartily  despised  in  conse- 

*  quence  by  all  other  wives ;  who  still  want  to  govern  their  Jf^men"^ 
'  husbands,  notwithstanding.'    An  alarming  family  pair  follows 

that.     '  The   playful  —  and  scratching  —  family.    Father  and 

*  daughter.'    And  here  is  another.    *  The  agreeable  (and  wicked) 

*  young-mature  man,  and  his  devoted  sister.'  What  next  was 
set  down  he  had  himself  partly  seen  ;  and,  by  enquiry  at  the 
hospital  named,  had  ascertained  the  truth  of  the  rest.    *  The 

*  two  people  in  the  Incurable  Hospital. — The  poor  incurable 

*  girl  lying  on  a  water-bed,  and  the  incurable  man  who  has  a 

*  strange  flirtation  with  her ;  comes  and  makes  confidences  to 

*  her ;  snips  and  arranges  her  plants ;  and  rehearses  to  her  the 

*  comic  songs  (!)  by  writing  which  he  materially  helps  out  his 

*  living.'  * 

♦  Following  this  in  the  'Memo-    vacations  or  extras,  to  him  haa 
'  randa '  is  an  advertisement  cut  from    one  meaning. 

the  'limes:  of  a  kind  that  always  ex-   

J  .         ,              u  ij  r      •  T7DUCATI0N  FOR  LITTLE  CHIL-  Children- 
pressed   to  Dickens  a    chlld-farmmg  XL,    L) REN -Terms  14  to  18  guineas  per  Arming, 
that  deserved    the  gallows   quite   as  annum  ;  no  extras  or  vacations.    The  system 
...          .  of  education  embraces  the  wide  range  of  each 
much  as  the  worst  kmd  of  Starvmg,  by  useful  and  ornamental  study  suited  to  the 
way  of  farming,  babies.    The  fourteen  t^^^er  age  of  the  dear  children  Maternal 

t       J     >  t    \.  cslX^  and  kindness  may  be  relied  on. — X 

guineas  a-year,     tender    age  of  the  Heald's  Library,  Fulham-roadL 

'dear'  ones,  maternal  care,  and  no 


38o 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX 


London 
i855-6S- 


Uncle 
Sam. 


Various 
forms  of 
the  selfish 


Two  lighter  figures  are  very  pleasantly  touched.    *  Set  of  cir- 

*  cumstances  which  suddenly  bring  an  easy,  airy  fellow  into  near 

*  relations  with  people  he  knows  nothing  about,  and  has  never 

*  even  seen.    This,  through  his  being  thrown  in  the  way  of  the 

*  innocent  young  personage  of  the  story.    **  Then  there  is  Uncle 

*  "  Sam  to  be  considered,"  says  she.    "  Aye  to  be  sure,"  says  he, 

*  "  so  there  is  !    By  Jupiter,  I  forgot  Uncle  Sam.    He's  a  rock 

*  ahead,  is  Uncle  Sam.    He  must  be  considered,  of  course  ;  he 

*  "must  be  smoothed  down  ;  he  must  be  cleared  out  of  the  way. 

*  "  To  be  sure.    I  never  thought  of  Uncle  Sam. — By  the  bye, 

*  "Who  is  Uncle  Sam?"' 
There  are  several  such  sketches  as  that,  to  set  against  the 

groups  of  women ;  and  some  have  Dickens's  favourite  vein  of 
satire  in  them.    '  The  man  whose  vista  is  always  stopped  up  by 

*  the  image  of  Himself.  Looks  down  a  long  walk,  and  can't  see 
'  round  himself,  or  over  himself,  or  beyond  himself.    Is  always 

*  blocking  up  his  own  way.    Would  be  such  a  good  thing  for 

*  him,  if  he  could  knock  himself  down.'  Another  picture  of 
selfishness  is  touched  with  greater  delicacy.    *  "  Too  good  "  to  be 

*  grateful  to,  or  dutiful  to,  or  anything  else  that  ought  to  be.    "  I 

*  won't  thank  you  :  you  are  too  good." — "  Don't  ask  me  to 

*  "  marry  you  :  you  are  too  good." — In  short,  I  don't  particularly 

*  mind  ill-using  you,  and  being  selfish  with  you  :  for  you  are  so 
'  good.  Virtue  its  own  reward  ! '  A  third,  which  seems  to 
reverse  the  dial,  is  but  another  face  of  it :  frankly  avowing  faults, 
which  are  virtues.  '  In  effect — I  admit  I  am  generous,  amiable, 
'  gentle,  magnanimous.  Reproach  me — I  deserve  it — I  know  my 
'  faults — I  have  striven  in  vain  to  get  the  better  of  them.' 
Dickens  would  have  made  much,  too,  of  the  working  out  of  the 

the  grateful :  ncxt.    '  The  knowiug  man  in  distress,  who  borrows  a  round  sum 

*  of  a  generous  friend.  Comes,  in  depression  and  tears,  dines, 
'  gets  the  money,  and  gradually  cheers  up  over  his  wine,  as  he 

*  obviously  entertains  himself  with  the  reflection  that  his  friend  is 

*  an  egregious  fool  to  have  lent  it  to  him,  and  that  he  would 

*  have  known  better.'    And  so  of  this  other.    *  The  man  who 

*  invariably  says  apposite  things  (in  the  way  of  reproof  or  sar- 

*  casm)  THAT  HE  don't  mean.    Astonished  when  they  are  ex- 

*  plained  to  him.' 


and  the 
sarcastic. 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books, 


381 


Here  is  a  fancy  that  I  remember  him  to  have  been  more  than  London  : 
once  bent  upon  making  use  of :  but  the  opportunity  never  came.  ^^^^ 

*  The  two  men  to  be  guarded  against,  as  to  their  revenge.  One, 

*  whom  I  openly  hold  in  some  serious  animosity,  whom  I  am  at  On  the 

*  the  pains  to  wound  and  defy,  and  whom  I  estimate  as  worth  beneath. 
'  wounding  and  defying ; — the  other,  whom  I  treat  as  a  sort  of 

*  insect,  and  contemptuously  and  pleasantly  flick  aside  with  my 

*  glove.    But,  it  turns  out  to  be  the  latter  who  is  the  really  dan- 

*  gerous  man ;  and,  when  I  expect  the  blow  from  the  other,  it 

*  comes  from  him.^ 

We  have  the  master  hand  in  the  following  bit  of  dialogue, 
which  takes  wider  application  than  that  for  which  it  appears  to 
have  been  intended. 

'  "  There  is  some  virtue  in  him  too." 

'  "  Virtue  !    Yes.    So  there  is  in  any  grain  of  seed  in  a  seeds-  How  to 

.   .  get  good 

"  man's  shop — but  you  must  put  it  m  the  ground,  before  you  can  out  of  a 

man. 

*  "get  any  good  out  of  it." 

*  "  Do  you  mean  that  he  must  be  put  in  the  ground  before  any 
'  "good  comes  of  him  ?  " 

*  "  Indeed  I  do.    You  may  call  it  burying  him,  or  you  may  call 

*  "  it  sowing  him,  as  you  like.    You  must  set  him  in  the  earth, 

*  "before  you  get  any  good  of  him."  ' 

One  of  the  entries  is  a  list  of  persons  and  places  meant  to  have 
been  made  subjects  for  special  description,  and  it  will  awaken 
regret  that  only  as  to  one  of  them  (the  Mugby  Refreshments)  his 
intention  was  fulfilled.    *  A  Vestryman.    A  Briber.    A  Station  f^^J^jJ^^^ 
'  Waiting-Room.    Refreshments  at  Mugby.    A  Physician's  Wait- 

*  ing-Room.  The  Royal  Academy.  An  Antiquary's  house.  A 
'  Sale  Room.  A  Picture  Gallery  (for  sale).  A  Waste-paper 
'  Shop.    A  Post- Office.    A  Theatre.' 

All  will  have  been  given  that  have  particular  interest  or  value, 
from  this  remarkable  volume,  when  the  thoughts  and  fancies  I 
proceed  to  transcribe  have  been  put  before  the  reader. 


*  The  man  who  is  incapable  of  his  own  happiness.  Or  who  is 
*  always  in  pursuit  of  happiness.    Result,  Where  is  happiness  to 


382 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  IX. 


*  be  found  then  ?  Surely  not  Everywhere  ?  Can  that  be  so, 
'  after  all  ?    Is  this  my  experience  ? ' 


*  The  people  who  persist  in  defining  and  analysing  their  (and 

*  everybody  else's)  moral  qualities,  motives  and  what  not,  at  once 

*  in  the  narrowest  spirit  and  the  most  lumbering  manner ; — as  if 

*  one  should  put  up  an  enormous  scaffolding  for  the  building  of  a 

*  pigstye.' 

*  The  house-full  of  Toadies  and  Humbugs.     They  all  know 

*  and  despise  one  another ;  but — partly  to  keep  their  hands  in, 

*  and  partly  to  make  out  their  own  individual  cases — pretend  not 

*  to  detect  one  another.' 


*  People  realising  immense  sums  of  money,  imaginatively — 

*  speculatively — counting  their  chickens  before  hatched.  Inflaming 

*  each  other's  imaginations  about  great  gains  of  money,  and 

*  entering  into  a  sort  of  intangible,  impossible,  competition  as  to 

*  who  is  the  richer.' 


*  The  advertising  sage,  philosopher,  and  friend :  who  educates 
*  *'  for  the  bar,  the  pulpit,  or  the  stage." ' 


*  The  character  of  the  real  refugee — not  the  conventional  j 

*  the  real.' 

*■  The  mysterious  character,  or  characters,  interchanging  confi- 

*  dences.  "  Necessary  to  be  very  careful  in  that  direction." — "In 
'  "  what  direction  ?" — "  B  " — "  You  don't  say  so.    What,  do  you 

*  mean  that  C  ?  "— "  Is  aware  of  D.    Exactly." ' 


<  The  father  and  boy,  as  I  dramatically  see  them.  Opening 
'  with  the  wild  dance  I  have  in  my  mind.' 

*  The  old  child.  That  is  to  say,  born  of  parents  advanced  in 
^  life,  and  observing  the  parents  of  other  children  to  be  young. 
*  Taking  an  old  tone  accordingly.' 


London : 
1855-65. 


Characters 
and 

tlioughts 
unused. 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books. 


383 


*  A  thoroughly  sulky  character — perverting  everything.   Making  London  : 

1855-65. 

*  the  good,  bad — and  the  bad,  good.'   

  Fancies  not 

worked 

*  The  people  who  lay  all  their  sins  negligences  and  ignorances,  "p°°- 

*  on  Providence.' 

*  The  man  who  marries  his  cook  at  last,  after  being  so  despe- 

*  lately  knowing  about  the  sex.' 

*  The  swell  establishment,  frightfully  mean  and  miserable  in  all 

*  but  the  "  reception  rooms."    Those  very  showy.' 

*  B.  tells  M.  what  my  opinion  is  of  his  work,  &c.    Quoting  the 

*  man  you  have  once  spoken  to,  as  if  he  had  talked  a  life's  talk  in 

*  two  minutes.' 

'  A  misplaced  and  mis-married  man  ;  always,  as  it  were,  playing 

*  hide  and  seek  with  the  world ;  and  never  finding  what  Fortune 

*  seems  to  have  hidden  when  he  was  born.' 


*  Certain  women  in  Africa  who  have  lost  children,  carry  little 
'  wooden  images  of  children  on  their  heads,  and  always  put 

*  their  food  to  the  lips  of  those  images,  before  tasting  it  them- 

*  selves.    This  is  in  a  part  of  Africa  where  the  mortality  among 

*  children  (judging  from  the  number  of  these  little  memorials)  is 

*  very  great.' 

Two  more  entries  are  the  last  which  he  made.    *  Available  Available 

*  NAMES '  introduces  a  wonderful  list  in  the  exact  following 
classes  and  order ;  as  to  which  the  reader  may  be  left  to  his 
own  memory  for  selection  of  such  as  found  their  way  into  the 
several  stories  from  Little  Dorrit  to  the  end.  The  rest,  not  lifted 
into  that  higher  notice  by  such  favour  of  their  creator,  must 
remain  like  any  other  undistinguished  crowd.  But  among  them 
may  perhaps  be  detected,  by  those  who  have  special  insight  for 
the  physiognomy  of  a  name,  some  few  with  so  great  promise 
in  them  of  fun  and  character  as  will  make  the  '  mute  in- 

*  glorious  '  fate  which  has  befallen  them  a  subject  for  special 


3^4 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  ix. 


London : 
1855-65. 


Titles  for 
books. 


regret ;  and  much  ingenious  speculation  will  probably  wait  upon 
all.  Dickens  has  generally  been  thought,  by  the  curious,  to  dis- 
play not  a  few  of  his  most  characteristic  traits  in  this  particular 
field  of  invention. 

First  there  are  titles  for  books ;  and  from  the  list  subjoined 
were  taken  two  for  Christmas  numbers  and  two  for  stories, 
though  Nobody's  Fault  had  ultimately  to  give  way  to  Little 
Dorrit, 


'  the  lumber  room. 

*  somebody's  luggage. 

*  to  be  left  till  called  for. 

*  something  wanted. 

*  extremes  meet. 
'  nobody's  fault. 

*  THE  grindstone. 

'  rokesmith's  forge. 

*  our  mutual  friend. 

*  the  cinder  heap. 


TWO  GENERATIONS. 
BROKEN  CROCKERY. 
DUST. 

THE  HOME  DEPARTMENT. 
THE  YOUNG  PERSON. 
NOW  OR  NEVER. 
MY  NEIGHBOURS. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  FATHERS. 
NO  THOROUGHFARE.' 


Christian 
names. 


'I'hen  comes  a  batch  of  *  Christian  names ' :  Girls  and  Boys  : 
which  stand  thus,  with  mention  of  the  source  from  which  he  ob- 
tained them.  These  therefore  can  hardly  be  called  pure  inven- 
tion. Some  would  have  been  reckoned  too  extravagant  for 
anything  but  reality. 

*  Girls  from  Privy  Council  Education  lists. 


'  LELIA. 

'  MENELLA. 

*  RUBINA. 
'  IRIS. 

*  REBECCA. 


*  DOCTOR. 
'  HOMER. 

*  ODEN. 

*  BRADLEY. 


ETTY. 
REBINAH. 
SEBA. 
PERSIA. 
ARAM  AN  DA. 


DORIS. 
BALZINA. 
PLEASANT. 
GENTILLA. 


Boys  from  Privy  Cou7icil  Education  lists. 


ZERUBBABEL. 
MAXIMILIAN. 
URBIN. 
SAMILIAS. 


PICKLES. 
ORANGE. 
FEATHER. 


*  Girls  and  Boys  from  Ditto. 
*  AMANDA,   ETHLYNIDA  ;  BOETIUS,  BOLTIUS.* 

To  which  he  adds  supplementary  lists  that  appear  to  be  his 


own. 


§  VII.] 


Hints  for  Books, 


385 


More  Boys. 


'  ROBERT  LADLE. 

*JOLY  STICK. 

'  BILL  MARIGOLD. 

'  STEPHEN  MARQUICK. 

'JONATHAN  KNOTWELL. 

'  PHILIP  BROWNDRESS. 

'  HENRY  GHOST. 


GEORGE  MUZZLE. 

WALTER  ASHES. 

ZEPHANIAH  FERRY  (or  FURY). 

WILLIAM  WHY. 

ROBERT  GOSPEL. 

THOMAS  FATHERLY. 

ROBIN  SCRUBBAM. 


London : 

1855-65- 

Christian 
and  sur- 
names. 


More  Girls. 


*  SARAH  GOLDSACKS. 
'  ROSETTA  DUST. 

*  SUSAN  GOLDRING. 

*  CATHERINE  TWO. 

*  MATILDA  RAINBIRD. 

*  MIRIAM  DENIAL. 

'  SOPHIA  DOOMSDAY. 


ALICE  THORNEYWORK. 
SALLY  GIMBLET. 
VERITY  HAWKYARD. 
BIRDIE  NASH. 
AMBROSINA  EVENTS. 
APAULINA  VERNON. 
NELTIE  ASHFORD,' 


And  then  come  the  mass  of  his  '  available  names,'  which  stand, 
thus,  without  other  introduction  or  comment : 


•  TOWNDLING. 

SLYANT. 

PEDSEY. 

•  MOOD. 

QUEEDY. 

DUNCALF. 

*  GUFF. 

BESSELTHUR. 

TRICKLEBANK. 

'  TREBLE. 

MUSTY. 

SAPSEA. 

*  CHILBY. 

GROUT. 

READYHUFF. 

'  SPESSIFER. 

TERTIUS  JOBBER. 

DUFTY. 

*  WODDER. 

AMON  HEADSTON. 

FOGGY. 

*  WHELPFORD. 

STRAYS  HOTT. 

TWINN. 

'  FENNERCK. 

HIGDEN. 

BROWNSWORD. 

*  GANNERSON. 

MORFIT. 

PEARTREE. 

*  CHINKERBLE. 

GOLDSTRAW. 

SUDDS. 

•  BINTREY. 

BARREL. 

SILVERMAN. 

'  FLEDSON. 

INGE. 

KIMBER. 

'  HIRLL. 

JUMP. 

LAUGHLEY. 

*  BRAYLE. 

JIGGINS. 

LESSOCK. 

*  MULLENDER. 

BONES. 

TlPriNS. 

*  TRESLINGHAM. 

COY. 

MINNITT. 

*  BRANKLE. 

DAWN. 

RAD  LOWE. 

'  SITTERN. 

TATKIN. 

PRATCHET. 

*  DOSTONE. 

DROWVEY. 

MAWDETT. 

*  CAY-LON. 

PUDSEY. 

WOZENHAM. 

♦  SNOWELL. 

WARBLER. 

STILTWALK. 

'  LOTTRUM. 

PEEX— SPEEX. 

STILTINGSTALK. 

'  LAMMLE. 

GANNAWAY. 

STILTSTALKING. 

FROSER. 

MRS.  FLINKS. 

^.VENDER. 

you  n- 

AvailabUt 
for  use. 


386 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  IX. 


London : 
1855-65- 


Available 
for  use. 


*  HOLBLACK. 

*  MULLEY. 
'  RED  WORTH. 

*  REDFOOT. 
'  TARBOX  (B). 

*  TINKLING. 

*  DUDDLE. 
'  JEBUS. 

'  POWDERHILL. 

*  GRIMMER, 

*  SKUSE. 
'  TITCOOMBE. 
'  GRABBLE. 

*  SWANNOCK. 

*  TUZZEN. 

*  TWEMLOW. 

*  SQUAB. 

*  JACKMAN. 

*  SUGG. 

*  BREMMIDGE. 

*  SILAS  BLODGET. 

*  MELVIN  BEAL. 

*  BUTTRICK. 

*  EDSON. 

*  SANLORN. 

*  LIGHTWORD. 
'  TITBULL. 

*  BANGHAM. 

*  KYLE — NYLE. 
'  PEMBLE. 
'  MAXEY. 

*  ROKESMITH. 
'  CHIVERY. 

The  last  of  the  Memoranda,  and  the  last  words  written  by 
Dickens  in  the  blank  paper  book  containing  them,  are  these. 

*  "  Then  I'll  give  up  snuff."     Brobity. — An  alarming  sacrifice. 
Mr.  Brobi-   *  Mr.  Brobity's  snuff-box.     The  Pawnbroker's  account  of  it  ? ' 

ty's  snuff- 
box. What  was  proposed  by  this  must  be  left  to  conjecture  ;  but 

*  Brobity '  is  the  name  of  one  of  the  people  in  his  unfinished 
story,  and  the  suggestion  may  have  been  meant  for  some  incident 
in  it.  If  so,  it  is  the  only  passage  in  the  volume  which  can  be  in 
any  way  connected  with  the  piece  of  writing  on  which  he  was  last 
engaged.  Some  names  were  taken  for  it  from  the  lists,  but  there 
is  otherwise  nothing  to  recall  Edwin  Drood, 


FLINKS. 

STILTINGTON. 

JEE. 

PODS  NAP. 

HARDEN. 

CLARRIKER. 

MERDLE. 

COMPERY. 

MURDEN. 

STRIVER— STRYVER. 

TOPWASH. 

PUMBLECHOOK. 

PORDAGE. 

WANGLER. 

DORRET — DORRIT. 

BOFFIN. 

CARTON. 

BANTINCK. 

MINIFIE. 

DIBTON. 

SLINGO. 

WILFER. 

JOAD. 

GLIBBERY. 

KINCH. 

MULVEY. 

MAG. 

HORLICK. 

CHELLYSON. 

DOOLGE. 

BLENNAM— CL. 

GANNERY. 

BARDOCK. 

GARGERY. 

SNIGSWORTH. 

WILLSHARD. 

SWENTON. 

RIDERHOOD. 

CASBY— BEACH. 

PRATTERSTONE. 

LOWLEIGH — LOW  ELY. 

CHINKIBLE. 

PIGRIN. 

WOPSELL. 

YERBURY. 

WOPSLE. 

PLORNISH. 

WHELPINGTON. 

MAROON. 

GAYVERY. 

BANDY-NANDY. 

WEGG. 

STONEBURY. 

HUBBLE. 

MAGWITCH. 

URRY. 

MEAGLES. 

KIBBLE. 

PANCKS. 

SKIFFINS. 

HAGGAGE. 

ETSER. 

PROVIS. 

AKERSHEM.' 

§  VIII.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


387 


London 

1836-70 


VIII. 

CLOSING  WORD. 

The  year  after  America,  as  the  reader  knows,  saw  the  com- 
mencement of  the  work  which  death  interrupted.  The  fragment 
will  hereafter  be  described ;  and  here  meanwhile  may  close  my 
criticism — itself  a  fragment  left  for  worthier  completion  by  a 
stronger  hand  than  mine.  It  suffices  for  the  present  to  have 
attempted  to  clear  the  ground  from  those  distinctions  and  com- 
parisons never  safely  to  be  applied  to  an  original  writer,  and  which 
always  more  or  less  intercept  his  fair  appreciation. 

It  was  long  the  fashion,  with  critics  of  authority,  to  set  up  wide  Needless 
divergences  between  novels  of  incident  and  manners,  and  novels  tions. 
of  character;  the  narrower  range  being  left  to  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  and  the  larger  to  Richardson  \  yet  there  are  not  many 
now  who  will  accept  such  classification.  Nor  is  there  more  truth 
in  other  like  distinctions  alleged  between  novehsts  who  are 
assumed  to  be  real,  or  ideal,  in  their  methods  of  treatment.  To 
any  original  novelist  of  the  higher  grade  there  is  no  meaning  in 
these  contrasted  phrases.  Neither  mode  can  exist  at  all  perfectly 
without  the  other.  No  matter  how  sensitive  the  mind  to  external 
impressions,  or  how  keen  the  observation  to  whatever  can  be 
seen,  without  the  rarer  seeing  of  imagination  nothing  will  be 
arrived  at  that  is  real  in  any  genuine  artist-sense.  Reverse  the 
proposition,  and  the  result  is  expressed  in  an  excellent  remark  of 
Lord  Lytton's,  that  the  happiest  effort  of  imagination,  however 
lofty  it  may  be,  is  that  which  enables  it  to  be  cheerfully  at  home 
with  the  real.  I  have  said  that  Dickens  felt  criticism,  of  whatever 
kind,  with  too  sharp  a  relish  for  the  indifference  he  assumed  to  it; 
but  the  secret  was  that  he  believed  himself  to  be  entitled  to  a  failing 
higher  tribute  than  he  was  always  in  the  habit  of  receiving.  It  to  men  of 
was  the  feeling  which  suggested  a  memorable  saying  of  Words- 
worth.  *  I  am  not  at  all  desirous  that  any  one  should  write  a 
*  critique  on  my  poems.    If  they  be  from  above,  they  will  do 

c  c  2 


388 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London ; 
1836-70. 


Purity  of 
Dickens's 
writings. 


Alleged 
deficiency. 


Siifficient 
substitute. 


*  their  own  work  in  course  of  time ;  if  not,  they  will  perish  as 

*  they  ought' 

The  something  '  from  above '  never  seems  to  me  absent  from 
Dickens,  even  at  his  worst.  When  the  strain  upon  his  invention 
became  apparent,  and  he  could  only  work  freely  in  a  more  con- 
fined space  than  of  old,  it  was  still  able  to  assert  itself  triumph- 
antly ;  and  his  influence  over  his  readers  was  continued  by  it  to 
the  last  day  of  his  life.  Looking  back  over  the  series  of  his 
writings,  the  first  reflection  that  rises  to  the  mind  of  any  thought- 
ful person,  is  one  of  thankfulness  that  the  most  popular  of  writers, 
who  had  carried  into  the  lowest  scenes  and  conditions  an  amount 
of  observation,  fun,  and  humour  not  approached  by  any  of  his 
contemporaries,  should  never  have  sullied  that  world-wide  influ- 
ence by  a  hint  of  impurity  or  a  possibility  of  harm.  Nor  is  there 
anything  more  surprising  than  the  freshness  and  variety  of  character 
which  those  writings  include,  within  the  range  of  the  not  numerous 
types  of  character  that  were  the  limit  of  their  author's  genius. 
For,  this  also  appears,  upon  any  review  of  them  collectively,  that 
the  teeming  life  which  is  in  them  is  that  of  the  time  in  which  his 
own  life  was  passed ;  and  that  with  the  purpose  of  showing  vividly 
its  form  and  pressure,  was  joined  the  hope  and  design  to  leave  it 
better  than  he  found  it.  It  has  been  objected  that  humanity 
receives  from  him  no  addition  to  its  best  types  j  that  the  burlesque 
humourist  is  always  stronger  in  him  than  the  reflective  moralist ; 
that  the  light  thrown  by  his  genius  into  out  of  the  way  comers  of 
life  never  steadily  shines  in  its  higher  beaten  ways;  and  that 
beside  his  pictures  of  what  man  is  or  does,  there  is  no  attempt  to 
show,  by  delineation  of  an  exalted  purpose  or  a  great  career,  what 
man  is  able  to  be  or  to  do.  In  the  charge  abstractedly  there  is 
truth ;  but  the  fair  remark  upon  it  is  that  whatever  can  be 
regarded  as  essential  in  the  want  implied  by  it  will  be  found  in 
other  forms  in  his  writings,  that  the  perfect  innocence  of  their 
laughter  and  tears  has  been  itself  a  prodigious  blessing,  and  that  it 
is  otherwise  incident  to  so  great  a  humourist  to  work  after  the 
fashion  most  natural  to  the  genius  of  humour.  What  kind  of 
work  it  has  been  in  his  case,  the  attempt  is  made  in  preceding 
pages  to  show;  and  on  the  whole  it  can  be  said  with  some 


§  VIII.] 


Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


389 


certainty  that  the  best  ideals  in  this  sense  are  obtained,  not  by  ^f^^^?^^^ 
presenting  with  added  comeliness  or  grace  the  figures  which  life  is 
ever  eager  to  present  as  of  its  best,  but  by  connecting  the  singularities 
and  eccentricities  which  ordinary  life  is  apt  to  reject  or  overlook, 
with  the  appreciation  that  is  deepest  and  the  laws  of  insight  that 
are  most  universal.  It  is  thus  that  everything  human  is  happily 
brought  within  human  sympathy.  It  was  at  the  heart  of  what- 
ever Dickens  wrote,  making  him  the  intimate  of  every  English 
household,  and  a  familiar  friend  wherever  the  language  is 
spoken  whose  stores  of  harmless  pleasure  he  has  so  largely 
increased.  Above  all  it  was  the  secret  of  the  hope  he  had 
that  his  books  might  help  to  make  people  better;  and  it  so 
guarded  them  from  evil,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  page  of  the 
thousands  he  has  written  which  might  not  be  put  into  the  hands 
of  a  little  child. 

I  borrow  that  expression  from  the  Bishop  of  Manchester,  who, 
on  the  third  day  after  Dickens's  death,  in  the  Abbey  where  he  was 
so  soon  to  be  laid,  closed  a  plea  for  the  toleration  of  differences 
of  opinion  where  the  foundations  of  religious  truth  are  accepted, 
with  these  words.    *  It  will  not  be  out  of  harmony  with  the  line  of 

*  thought  we  have  been  pursuing — certainly  it  will  be  in  keeping 

*  with  the  associations  of  this  place,  dear  to  Englishmen,  not  only 

*  as  one  of  the  proudest  Christian  temples,  but  as  containing  the 

*  memorials  of  so  many  who  by  their  genius  in  arts,  or  arms,  or 

*  statesmanship,  or  literature,  have  made  England  what  she  is — if  9th  Jun*. 

1870. 

*  in  the  simplest  and  briefest  words  I  allude  to  that  sad  and  un- 

*  expected  death  which  has  robbed  English  literature  of  one  of 

*  its  highest  living  ornaments,  and  the  news  of  which,  two  morn- 

*  ings  ago,  must  have  made  every  household  in  England  feel  as 

*  though  they  had  lost  a  personal  fi-iend.    He  has  been  called  in 

*  one  notice  an  apostle  of  the  people.    I  suppose  it  is  meant  that 

*  he  had  a  mission,  but  in  a  style  and  fashion  of  his  own ;  a 

*  gospel,  a  cheery,  joyous,  gladsome  message,  which  the  people 

*  understood,  and  by  which  they  could  hardly  help  being  bet- 

*  tered  ;  for  it  was  the  gospel  of  kindliness,  of  brotherly  love,  of 

*  sympathy  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word.  I  am  sure  I  have 
'  felt  in  myself  the  healthful  spirit  of  his  teaching.    Possibly  we 


390 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  IX. 


London  :  *  might  not  have  been  able  to  subscribe  to  the  same  creed  in  rela- 

x836-7a  . 

 ••  *  tion  to  God,  but  I  think  we  should  have  subscribed  to  the  same 

Praise 

hTvSg  *  creed  in  relation  to  man.  He  who  has  taught  us  our  duty  to 
'  our  fellow  men  better  than  we  knew  it  before,  who  knew  so 

*  well  to  weep  with  them  that  wept,  and  to  rejoice  with  them 

*  that  rejoiced,  who  has  shown  forth  in  all  his  knowledge  of  the 
*■  dark  comers  of  the  earth  how  much  sunshine  may  rest  upon  the 
'  lowliest  lot,  who  had  such  evident  sympathy  with  suffering,  and 
'  such  a  natural  instinct  of  purity  that  there  is  scarcely  a  page  of 

*  the  thousands  he  has  written  which  might  not  be  put  into  the 

*  hands  of  a  little  child,  must  be  regarded  by  those  who  recognise 
'  the  diversity  of  the  gifts  of  the  spirit  as  a  teacher  sent  from 

*  God.    He  would  have  been  welcomed  as  a  fellow-labourer  in 

*  the  common  interests  of  humanity  by  Him  who  asked  the 

*  question  "  If  a  man  love  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen, 
^  "  how  can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  " ' 

*  The  loss  of  no  single  man  during  the  present  generation,  if  we 
*■  except  Abraham  Lincoln  alone,*  said  Mr.  Horace  Greeley, 
describing  the  profound  and  universal  grief  of  America  at  his 
death,  *  has  carried  mourning  into  so  many  families,  and  been  so 
'  unaffectedly  lamented  through  all  the  ranks  of  society.'    *  The 

Grief  in      <  terrible  news  from  England,'  wrote  Longfellow  to  me  (Cam- 

Amenca.  o         ^  o  v 

bridge,  Mass.  12th  of  June  1870),  *  fills  us  all  with  inexpressible 

*  sadness.  Dickens  was  so  full  of  life  that  it  did  not  seem  possible 
^  he  could  die,  and  yet  he  has  gone  before  us,  and  we  are  sorrow- 
'  ing  for  him  ....  I  never  knew  an  author's  death  cause  such 

*  general  mourning.    It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  this  whole 

*  country  is  stricken  with  grief  .  .  .  .'  Nor  was  evidence  then 
wanting,  that  far  beyond  the  limits  of  society  on  that  vast  conti- 
nent the  English  writer's  influence  had  penetrated.    Of  this,  very 

».  M3-4-  touching  illustration  was  given  on  a  former  page ;  and  proof  even 
more  striking  has  since  been  afforded  to  me,  that  not  merely  in 
wild  or  rude  communities,  but  in  life  the  most  savage  and  solitary, 
his  genius  had  helped  to  while  time  away. 

*  Like  all  Americans  who  read,'  writes  an  American  gentleman, 
'  and  that  takes  in  nearly  all  our  people,  I  am  an  admirer  and  student 

*  of  Dickens.  ...  Its  perusal '  (that  of  niy  second  volume)  '  has 


§  VIII.]  Dickens  as  a  Novelist. 


391 


*  recalled  an  incident  which  may  interest  you.  Twelve  or  thirteen  London  : 

^  ^         .  1836-70. 

*  years  ago  I  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains  as  a  Govern-  ~ 

*  ment  surveyor  under  a  famous  frontiersman  and  civil  engineer — 

*  Colonel  Lander.    We  were  too  early  by  a  month,  and  became 

*  snow-bound  just  on  the  very  summit.     Under  these  circum- 

*  stances  it  was  necessary  to  abandon  the  wagons  for  a  time,  and 

*  drive  the  stock  (mules)  down  the  mountains  to  the  valleys 

*  where  there  was  pasturage  and  running  water.    This  was  a  long 

*  and  difficult  task,  occupying  several  days.    On  the  second  day, 

*  in  a  spot  where  we  expected  to  find  nothing  more  human  than  a 
'  grizzly  bear  or  an  elk,  we  found  a  little  hut,  built  of  pine  boughs 

*  and  a  few  rough  boards  clumsily  hewn  out  of  small  trees  with  an 

*  axe.   The  hut  was  covered  with  snow  many  feet  deep,  excepting 

*  only  the  hole  in  the  roof  which  served  for  a  chimney,  and  a 

*  small  pit-like  place  in  front  to  permit  egress.    The  occupant 

*  came  forth  to  hail  us  and  solicit  whisky  and  tobacco.    He  was 

*  dressed  in  a  suit  made  entirely  of  flour-sacks,  and  was  curiously 

*  labelled  on  various  parts  of  his  person  Best  Family  Flour. 

*  Extra,    His  head  was  covered  by  a  wolf's  skin  drawn  from  the 

*  brute's  head — with  the  ears  standing  erect  in  a  fierce  alert 

*  manner.    He  was  a  most  extraordinary  object,  and  told  us  he 

*  had  not  seen  a  human  being  in  four  months.    He  lived  on  bear 

*  and  elk  meat  and  flour,  laid  in  during  his  short  summer. 

*  Emigrants  in  the  season  paid  him  a  kind  of  ferry-toll.    I  asked 

*  him  how  he  passed  his  time,  and  he  went  to  a  barrel  and  pro- 

*  duced  Nicholas  Nickleby  and  Pickwick.    I  found  he  knew  them  Companions 

m  solitude. 

*  almost  by  heart    He  did  not  know,  or  seem  to  care,  about  the 

*  author ;  but  he  gloried  in  Sam  Weller,  despised  Squeers,  and 

*  would  probably  have  taken  the  latter's  scalp  with  great  skill  and 

*  cheerfulness.    For  Mr.  Winkle  he  had  no  feeling  but  contempt, 

*  and  in  fact  regarded  a  fowling-piece  as  only  a  toy  for  a  squaw. 

*  He  had  no  Bible ;  and  perhaps  if  he  practised  in  his  rude  savage 

*  way  all  Dickens  taught,  he  might  less  have  felt  the  want  even  of 

*  that  companion.* 


BOOK  TENTH. 


AMERICA  REVISITED. 

1867— 1868.       JEt.  55—56. 

I.  November  and  December,  1867. 

II.  January  to  April,  1868. 


L 


AMERICA:  NOVEMBER  AND  DECEMBER,  1867. 
1867. 

It  is  the  intention  of  this  and  the  following  chapter  to  narrate  America  : 

the  incidents  of  the  visit  to  America  in  Dickens's  own  language,  ■ 

and  in  that  only.  They  will  consist  almost  exclusively  of  extracts 
from  his  letters  written  home,  to  members  of  his  family  and  to 
myself. 

On  the  night  of  Tuesday  the  19th  of  November  he  arrived  at 
Boston,  where  he  took  up  his  residence  at  the  Parker  House 
hotel;  and  his  first  letter  (21st)  stated  that  the  tickets  for  the  first 
four  Readings,  all  to  that  time  issued,  had  been  sold  immediately 
on  their  becoming  saleable.    *  An  immense  train  of  people  waited 

*  in  the  freezing  street  for  twelve  hours,  and  passed  into  the  office 

*  in  their  turns,  as  at  a  French  theatre.    The  receipts  already 

*  taken  for  these  nights  exceed  our  calculation  by  more  than 

*  ;£25o.'  Up  to  the  last  moment,  he  had  not  been  able  to  clear 
off  wholly  a  shade  of  misgiving  that  some  of  the  old  grudges 
might  make  themselves  felt ;  but  from  the  instant  of  his  setting 
foot  in  Boston  not  a  vestige  of  such  fear  remained.    The  greeting 

was  to  the  full  as  extraordinary  as  that  of  twenty-five  years  before,  warmth 
and  was  given  now,  as  then,  to  the  man  who  had  made  himself  greeting, 
the  most  popular  writer  in  the  country.  His  novels  and  tales  were 
crowding  the  shelves  of  all  the  dealers  in  books  in  all  the  cities  of 
the  Union.    In  every  house,  in  every  car,  on  every  steam-boat, 
in  every  theatre  of  America,  the  characters,  the  fancies,  the 
phraseology  of  Dickens  were  become  familiar  beyond  those  of  any 
other  writer  of  books.    *  Even  in  England,'  said  one  of  the  New  Same  causo 
York  journals,  *  Dickens  is  less  known  than  here ;  and  of  the  as  in  184a. 

*  millions  here  who  treasure  every  word  he  has  written,  there  are 

*  tens  of  thousands  who  would  make  a  large  sacrifice  to  see  and 

*  hear  the  man  who  has  made  happy  so  many  hours.  Whatever 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  X, 


*  sensitiveness  there  once  was  to  adverse  or  sneering  criticism,  the 

*  lapse  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  the  profound  significance  of 

*  a  great  war,  have  modified  or  removed.'  The  point  was  more 
pithily,  and  as  truly,  put  by  Mr.  Horace  Greeley  in  the  Tribune, 

*  The  fame  as  a  novelist  which  Mr.  Dickens  had  already  created 

*  in  America,  and  which,  at  the  best,  has  never  yielded  him  any- 

*  thing  particularly  munificent  or  substantial,  is  become  his  capital 

*  stock  in  the  present  enterprise.' 

The  first  Reading  was  appointed  for  the  second  of  December, 
and  in  the  interval  he  saw  some  old  friends  and  made  some  new 
ones.*  Boston  he  was  fond  of  comparing  to  Edinburgh  as  Edin- 
burgh was  in  the  days  when  several  dear  friends  of  his  own  still 
lived  there.  Twenty-five  years  had  changed  much  in  the  American 
city ;  some  genial  faces  were  gone,  and  on  ground  which  he  had 
left  a  swamp  he  found  now  the  most  princely  streets ;  but  there 
was  no  abatement  of  the  old  warmth  of  kindness,  and,  with  every 
attention  and  consideration  shown  to  him,  there  was  no  intrusion. 
He  was  not  at  first  completely  conscious  of  the  change  in  this 
respect,  or  of  the  prodigious  increase  in  the  size  of  Boston.  But 
the  latter  grew  upon  him  from  day  to  day,  and  then  there  was  im- 
pressed along  with  it  a  contrast  to  which  it  was  difficult  to  recon- 


*  Among  these  I  think  he  was  most 
delighted  with  the  great  naturalist  and 
philosopher,  Agassiz,  whose  death  is 
unhappily  announced  while  I  write, 
and  as  to  whom  it  will  no  longer  be 
unbecoming  to   quote  his  allusion. 

*  Agassiz,  who  married  the  last  Mrs. 

*  Felton's  sister,  is  not  only  one  of  the 

*  most  accomplished  but  the  most 

*  natural  and  jovial  of  men.'  Again 
he  says :  *  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
'  pleased  I  was  by  Agassiz,  a  most 

*  charming  fellow,  or  how  I  have  re- 
'  gretted  his  seclusion  for  a  while  by 
'  reason  of  his  mother's  death.'  A 
valued  correspondent,  Mr.  Grant  Wil- 
son, sends  me  a  list  of  famous  Ameri- 
cans who  greeted  Dickens  at  his  first 
visit,  and  in  the  interval  had  passed 
away.     *  It  is  melancholy  to  contem- 

*  plate  the  large  number  of  American 


*  authors  w^ho  had,  between  the  first 
'  and  second  visits  of  Mr.  Dickens, 

*  "  gone  hence,  to  be  no  more  seen." 

*  The  sturdy  Cooper,  the  gentle  Irving, 

*  his  friend  and  kinsman  Paulding, 

*  Prescott  the  historian  and  Percival 

*  the  poet,  the  eloquent  Everett,  Na- 

*  thaniel  Hawthorne,  Edgar  A.  Poe, 
'  N.  P.  Willis,  the  genial  Halleck, 

*  and  many  lesser  lights,  including 

*  Prof.  Felton  and  Geo.  P.  Morris, 

*  had  died  during  the  quarter  of  a  cen- 
'  tury  that  elapsed  between  Dickens's 

*  visits  to  this  country,  leaving  a  new 

*  generation  of  writers  to  extend  the 
'  hand  of  friendship  to  him  on  his 

*  second  coming.' — Let  me  add  to  this 
that  Dickens  was  pleased,  at  this 
second  visit,  to  see  his  old  secretary 
who  had  travelled  so  agreeably  with 
him  through  his  first  tour  of  triumph. 


§  I.]         America:  November  and  December,  1867.  397 


cile  himself.    Nothing  enchanted  him  so  much  as  what  he  again  ^'^^l^^^  ' 
saw  of  the  delightful  domestic  life  of  Cambridge,  simple,  self-  Cambridge 
respectful,  cordial,  and  affectionate ;  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  Boston, 
believe  that  within  half  an  hour's  distance  of  it  should  be  found 
what  might  at  any  time  be  witnessed  in  such  hotels  as  that  which 
he  was  staying  at :  crowds  of  swaggerers,  loafers,  bar-loungers, 
and  dram-drinkers,  that  seemed  to  be  making  up,  from  day  to  day, 
not  the  least  important  part  of  the  human  life  of  the  city.   But  no 
great  mercantile  resort  in  the  States,  such  as  Boston  had  now  be- 
come, could  be  without  that  drawback ;  and  fortunate  should  we 
account  any  place  to  be,  though  even  so  plague-afflicted,  that 
has  yet  so  near  it  the  healthier  influence  of  the  other  life  which 
our  older  world  has  well-nigh  lost  altogether. 

*  The  city  has  increased  prodigiously  in  twenty-five  years,'  he 
wrote  to  his  daughter  Mary.    *  It  has  grown  more  mercantile.  It 

*  is  like  Leeds  mixed  with  Preston,  and  flavoured  with  New 

'  Brighton.    Only,  instead  of  smoke  and  fog,  there  is  an  ex-  Changes 

.  .  .         .  since  1842. 

*  quisitely  bright  light  air.'  *  Cambndge  is  exactly  as  I  left  it,'  he 
wrote  to  me.    *  Boston  more  mercantile,  and  much  larger.  The 

*  hotel  I  formerly  stayed  at,  and  thought  a  very  big  one,  is  now 
'  regarded  as  a  very  small  affair.  I  do  not  yet  notice — but  a  day, 
'  you  know,  is  not  a  long  time  for  observation  ! — any  marked 

*  change  in  character  or  habits.  In  this  immense  hotel  I  live  very 
'  high  up,  and  have  a  hot  and  cold  bath  in  my  bed  room,  with 
'  other  comforts  not  in  existence  in  my  former  day.  The  cost  of 
'  living  is  enormous.'  '  Two  of  the  staff  are  at  New  York,'  he 
^vrote  to  his  sister-in-law  on  the  25th  of  November,  'where  we 
*■  are  at  our  wits'  end  how  to  keep  tickets  out  of  the  hands  of 

*  speculators.    We  have  communications  from  all  parts  of  the 

*  country,  but  we  take  no  offer  whatever.  The  young  under- 
'  graduates  of  Cambridge  have  made  a  representation  to  Long- 
'  fellow  that  they  are  500  strong  and  cannot  get  one  ticket  I 

*  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done,  but  I  suppose  I  must  read  there, 

*  somehow.    We  are  all  in  the  clouds  until  I  shall  have  broken 

*  ground  in  New  York.'    The  sale  of  tickets,  there,  had  begun  Sale  of 

.         •  tickets  in 

two  days  before  the  first  readmg  m  Boston.    *  At  the  New  York  New  York. 

*  barriers/  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  on  the  first  of  December, 


398 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


America:  *  where  the  ticlccts  were  on  sale  and  the  people  ranged  as  at  the 
•  *■  Paris  theatres,  speculators  went  up  and  down  offering  twenty 

*  dollars  for  any  body's  place.     The  money  was  in  no  case 

*  accepted.    But  one  man  sold  two  tickets  for  the  second,  third, 

*  and  fourth  nights ;  his  payment  in  exchange  being  one  ticket  for 
'the  first  night,  fifty  dollars  (about  f^i  los.),  and  a  "brandy 
'  "  cock-tail.'" 

First  On  Monday  the  second  of  December  he  read  for  the  first  time 

reading.  in  Boston,  his  subjects  being  the  Carol  and  the  Trial  from 
Pickwick;  and  his  reception,  from  an  audience  than  which 
perhaps  none  more  remarkable  could  have  been  brought  together, 
went  beyond  all  expectations  formed.  *  It  is  really  impossible,' 
he  wTote  to  me  next  morning,   to  exaggerate  the  magnificence  of 

*  the  reception  or  the  effect  of  the  reading.    The  whole  city  will 

*  talk  of  nothing  else  and  hear  of  nothing  else  to-day.  Every 
*■  ticket  for  those  announced  here,  and  in  New  York,  is  sold.  All 
'  are  sold  at  the  highest  price,  for  which  in  our  calculation  we 

made  no  allowance  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  keep  out  speculators 
who  immediately  sell  at  a  premium.  At  the  decreased  rate  of 
money  even,  we  had  above  ;£"45o  English  in  the  house  last 
night ;  and  the  New  York  hall  holds  500  people  more.  Every- 
'■  thing  looks  brilliant  beyond  the  most  sanguine  hopes,  and  I  was 

*  quite  as  cool  last  night  as  though  I  were  reading  at  Chatham.' 
The  next  night  he  read  again ;  and  also  on  Thursday  and 
Friday;  on  Wednesday  he  had  rested;  and  on  Saturday  he 
travelled  to  New  York. 

He  had  written,  the  day  before  he  left,  that  he  was  making  a 
clear  profit  of  thirteen  hundred  pounds  English  a  week,  even 
allowing  seven  dollars  to  the  pound ;  but  words  were  added 
having  no  good  omen  in  them,  that  the  weather  was  taking  a 
turn  of  even  unusual  severity,  and  that  he  found  the  climate,  in 
the  suddenness  of  its  changes,  'and  the  wide  leaps  they  take,' 
excessively  trying.    *  The  work  is  of  course  rather  trying  too ; 

*  but  the  sound  position  that  everything  must  be  subservient  to  it 
'  enables  me  to  keep  aloof  from  invitations.  To-morrow,'  ran  the 
close  of  the  letter,  '  we  move  to  New  York.    We  cannot  beat  the 

*  speculators  in  our  tickets.    We  sell  no  more  than  six  to  any 


§  I.]         America:  November  and  December,  1867.  399 

'  one  person  for  the  course  of  four  readings ;  but  these  specu-  America: 
'  lators,  who  sell  at  greatly  increased  prices  and  make  large  profits,   

*  will  employ  any  number  of  men  to  buy.    One  of  the  chief  of  lators. 

*  them — now  living  in  this  house,  in  order  that  he  may  move  as 

*  we  move  ! — can  put  on  50  people  in  any  place  we  go  to  ;  and 
'  thus  he  gets  300  tickets  into  his  own  hands.'  Almost  while 
Dickens  was  writing  these  words  an  eye-witness  was  describing  to 
a  Philadelphia  paper  the  sale  of  the  New  York  tickets.  The  pay 
place  was  to  open  at  nine  on  a  Wednesday  morning,  and  at  mid- 
night of  Tuesday  a  long  line  of  speculators  were  assembled  in 
queue;  at  two  in  the  morning  a  few  honest  buyers  had  begun  to 
arrive ;  at  five  there  were,  of  all  classes,  two  lines  of  not  less  than 
800  each ;  at  eight  there  were  at  least  5000  persons  in  the  two 
lines;  at  nine  each  line  was  more  than  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in 
length,  and  neither  became  sensibly  shorter  during  the  whole 
morning.    *  The  tickets  for  the  course  were  all  sold  before  noon,  strange 

...  .  .         scene  at 

*  Members  of  families  relieved  each  other  in  the  queues ;  waiters  New  York. 

*  flew  across  the  streets  and  squares  from  the  neighbouring 

*  restaurant,  to  serve  parties  who  were  taking  their  breakfast  in 

*  the  open  December  air ;  while  excited  men  offered  five  and  ten 

*  dollars  for  the  mere  permission  to  exchange  places  with  other 
'  persons  standing  nearer  the  head  of  the  line  ! ' 

The  effect  of  the  reading  in  New  York  corresponded  with  this 
marvellous  preparation,  and  Dickens  characterised  his  audience 
as  an  unexpected  support  to  him  ;  in  its  appreciation  quick  and 
unfailing,  and  highly  demonstrative  in  its  satisfactions.  On  the 
nth  of  December  he  wrote  to  his  daughter:  'Amazing  success.  First  New 

*  A  very  fine  audience,  far  better  than  at  Boston.    Carol  and  ing. 

*  Trial  on  first  night,  great :  still  greater,  Copperfield  and  Bob 

*  Sawyer  on  second.    For  the  tickets  of  the  four  readings  of  next 

*  week  there  were,  at  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  3000  people  in 

*  waiting,  and  they  had  begun  to  assemble  in  the  bitter  cold  as 

*  early  as  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.'  To  myself  he  wrote  on 
the  15  th,  adding  touches  to  the  curious  picture.    *  Dolby  has  got 

*  into  trouble  about  the  manner  of  issuing  the  tickets  for  next 

*  week's  series.    He  cannot  get  four  thousand  people  into  a 

*  room  holding  only  two  thousand,  he  cannot  induce  people  to 


400 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


America  :  '  pay  at  the  Ordinary  price  for  themselves  instead  of  giving  thrice 
1867. 

 *  as  much  to  speculators,  and  he  is  attacked  in  all  directions.  .  .  . 

*  I  don't  much  like  my  hall,  for  it  has  two  large  balconies  far 

*  removed  from  the  platform  ;  but  no  one  ever  waylays  me  as  I  go 
'  into  it  or  come  out  of  it,  and  it  is  kept  as  rigidly  quiet  as  the 

*  Frangais  at  a  rehearsal.  We  have  not  yet  had  in  it  less  than 
^  £iA2>^  per  night,  allowing  for  the  depreciated  currency  !  I  send 
'  ;^3ooo  to  England  by  this  packet.    From  all  parts  of  the  States, 

*  applications  and  offers  continually  come  in.  We  go  to  Boston 
'  next  Saturday  for  two  more  readings,  and  come  back  here  on 
'  Christmas  Day  for  four  more.    I  am  not  yet  bound  to  go  else- 

*  where,  except  three  times,  each  time  for  two  nights,  to  Phila- 
'  delphia  ;  thinking  it  wisest  to  keep  free  for  the  largest  places.  I 
'  have  had  an  action  brought  against  me  by  a  man  who  considered 
'  himself  injured  (and  really  may  have  been)  in  the  matter  of  his 
'  tickets.  Personal  service  being  necessary,  I  was  politely  waited 
'on  by  a  marshal  for  that  purpose ;  whom  I  received  with  the 
'  greatest  courtesy,  apparently  very  much  to  his  amazement.  The 

*  action  was  handsomely  withdrawn  next  day,  and  the  plaintiff 
'  paid  his  own  costs. .  .  Dolby  hopes  you  are  satisfied  with  the 

*  figures  so  far ;  the  profit  each  night  exceeding  the  estimated 
'■  profit  by  ;£i3o  odd.  He  is  anxious  I  should  also  tell  you  that 
'  he  is  the  most  unpopular  and  best-abused  man  in  America.' 
Next  day  a  letter  to  his  sister-in-law  related  an  incident  too 
common  in  American  cities  to  disconcert  any  but  strangers.  He 
had  lodged  himself,  I  should  have  said,  at  the  Westminster  Hotel 
in  Irving  Place.  'Last  night  I  was  getting  into  bed  just  at 
'  12  o'clock,  when  Dolby  came  to  my  door  to  inform  me  that  the 

Fire  in  his    '  house  was  on  fire.    I  got  Scott  up  directly;  told  him  first  to 
'  pack  the  books  and  clothes  for  the  Readings  ;  dressed,  and 

*  pocketed  my  jewels  and  papers ;  while  the  manager  stuffed  him- 
'  self  out  with  money.    Meanwhile  the  police  and  firemen  were  in 

*  the  house  tracing  the  mischief  to  its  source  in  a  certain  fire- 
'  grate.  By  this  time  the  hose  was  laid  all  through  from  a  great 
'  tank  on  the  roof,  and  everybody  turned  out  to  help.    It  was  the 

*  oddest  sight,  and  people  had  put  the  strangest  things  on  ! 
'  After  chopping  and  cutting  with  axes  through  stairs,  and  much 


§  I.]         America:  November  and  December^  1867.  401 


handing  about  of  water,  the  fire  was  confined  to  a  dining-room  America: 

1867. 

*  in  which  it  had  originated  ;  and  then  everybody  talked  to  every  

*  body  else,  the  ladies  being  particularly  loquacious  and  cheerful. 
'  I  may  remark  that  the  second  landlord  (from  both,  but  especially 

*  the  first,  I  have  had  untiring  attention)  no  sooner  saw  me  on 

*  this  agitating  occasion,  than,  with  his  property  blazing,  he 
*■  insisted  on  taking  me  down  into  a  room  full  of  hot  smoke,  to 

*  drink  brandy  and  water  with  him  !    And  so  we  got  to  bed  again 

*  about  two.' 

Dickens  had  been  a  week  in  New  York  before  he  was  able  to  increase  of 

•  •  N'cw  Yorlc 

identify  the  great  city  which  a  lapse  of  twenty-five  years  had  so  city, 
prodigiously  increased.    *  The  only  portion  that  has  even  now 
'  come  back  to  me,'  he  wrote,  *  is  the  part  of  Broadway  in  which 

*  the  Carlton  Hotel  (long  since  destroyed)  used  to  stand.  There 

*  is  a  very  fine  new  park  in  the  outskirts,  and  the  number  of  grand 

*  houses  and  splendid  equipages  is  quite  surprising.    There  are 

*  hotels  close  here  with  500  bedrooms  and  I  don't  know  how 

*  many  boarders ;  but  this  hotel  is  quite  as  quiet  as,  and  not 

*  much  larger  than,  Mivart's  in  Brook  Street.    My  rooms  are  all 

*  en  suite,  and  I  come  and  go  by  a  private  door  and  private  stair- 

*  case  communicating  with  my  bed-room.    The  waiters  are  French, 

*  and  one  might  be  living  in  Paris.    One  of  the  two  proprietors  is 

*  also  proprietor  of  Niblo's  Theatre,  and  the  greatest  care  is  taken 

*  of  me.    Niblo's  great  attraction,  the  Black  Crook,  has  now  been 

*  played  every  night  for  16  months  (!),  and  is  the  most  preposterous 

*  peg  to  hang  ballets  on  that  was  ever  seen.    The  people  who  act 

*  in  it  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  it  is  about,  and  never 

*  had ;  but,  after  taxing  my  intellectual  powers  to  the  utmost,  I 

*  fancy  that  I  have  discovered  Black  Crook  to  be  a  malignant  Popular 

*  hunchback  leagued  with  the  Powers  of  Darkness  to  separate  enteJta*iS! 

*  two  lovers ;  and  that  the  Powers  of  Lightness  coming  (in  no  ^^^^ ' 

*  skirts  whatever)  to  the  rescue,  he  is  defeated.    I  am  quite 

*  serious  in  saying  that  I  do  not  suppose  there  are  two  pages  of 

*  All  the  Year  Round  in  the  whole  piece  (which  acts  all  night) ; 
'  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  it  being  ballets  of  all  sorts,  perfectly 

*  unaccountable  processions,  and  the  Donkey  out  of  last  year's 

*  Covent  Garden   pantomime !     At  the  other  theatres,  comic 

VOL.  II.  D  D 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X. 


America:  '  operas,  mclodramas,  and  domestic  dramas  prevail  all  over  the 

 —   city,  and  my  stories  play  no  inconsiderable  part  in  them.    I  go 

*■  nowhere,  having  laid  down  the  rule  that  to  combine  visiting  with 

*  my  work  would  be  absolutely  impossible.  .  .  .  The  Fenian 

*  explosion  at  Clerkenwell  was  telegraphed  here  in  a  few  hours. 

*  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  sympathy  whatever  with  the  Fenians 

*  on  the  part  of  the  American  people,  though  political  adventurers 

*  may  make  capital  out  of  a  show  of  it.    But  no  doubt  large 

*  sections  of  the  Irish  population  of  this  State  are  themselves 
Private  and  <  Fcuian  ;  and  the  local  politics  of  the  place  are  in  a  most 

Public.  ^  tr  r 

'  depraved  condition,  if  half  of  what  is  said  to  me  be  true.  I 
'  prefer  not  to  talk  of  these  things,  but  at  odd  intervals  I  look 

*  round  for  myself.    Great  social  improvements  in  respect  of 

*  manners  and  forbearance  have  come  to  pass  since  I  was  here 

*  before,  but  in  public  life  1  see  as  yet  but  little  change.' 

He  had  got  through  half  of  his  first  New  York  readings  when  a 
winter  storm  came  on,  and  from  this  time  until  very  near  his 
return  the  severity  of  the  weather  was  exceptional  even  for 
America.  When  the  first  snow  fell,  the  railways  were  closed  for 
some  days ;  and  he  described  New  York  crowded  with  sleighs, 
and  the  snow  piled  up  in  enormous  walls  the  whole  length  of  the 
streets.  '  I  turned  out  in  a  rather  gorgeous  sleigh  yesterday  with 
'  any  quantity  of  buffalo  robes,  and  made  an  imposing  appearance.' 

*  If  you  were  to  behold  me  driving  out,'  he  wrote  to  his  daughter, 

*  furred  up  to  the  moustache,  with  an  immense  white  red-and- 

*  yellow-striped  rug  for  a  covering,  you  would  suppose  me  to  be 

*  of  Hungarian  or  Polish  nationality.'  These  protections  never- 
theless availed  him  little;  and  when  the  time  came  for  getting 
back  to  Boston,  he  found  himself  at  the  close  of  his  journey  with 
a  cold  and  cough  that  never  again  left  him  until  he  had  quitted 
the  country,  and  of  which  the  effects  became  more  and  more 
disastrous.  For  the  present  there  was  little  allusion  to  this,  his 
belief  at  the  first  being  strong  that  he  should  overmaster  it ;  but 
it  soon  forced  itself  into  all  his  letters. 

SavdhJg.       His  railway  journey  otherwise  had  not  been  agreeable.  *The 
>.  237-8.      <  railways  are  truly  alarming.    Much  worse  (because  more  worn  I 
'  suppose)  than  when  \  wa§  here  before.    We  were  beaten  about 


§  I.]       America:  November  and  December^  1867.  403 


*  yesterday,  as  if  we  had  been  aboard  the  Cuba.    Two  rivers  America  : 

*  have  to  be  crossed,  and  each  time  the  whole  train  is  banged  

*  aboard  a  big  steamer.    The  steamer  rises  and  falls  with  the 

*  river,  which  the  railroad  don't  do ;  and  the  train  is  either  banged 

*  up  hill  or  banged  down  hill.    In  coming  off  the  steamer  at  one 

*  of  these  crossings  yesterday,  we  were  banged  up  such  a  height 

*  that  the  rope  broke,  and  one  carriage  rushed  back  with  a  run 
<  down-hill  into  the  boat  again.  I  whisked  out  in  a  moment,  and 
'  two  or  three  others  after  me ;  but  nobody  else  seemed  to  care 

*  about  it.    The  treatment  of  the  luggage  is  perfectly  outrageous. 

*  Nearly  every  case  I  have  is  already  broken.    When  we  started 

*  from  Boston  yesterday,  I  beheld,  to  my  unspeakable  amazement, 

*  Scott,  my  dresser,  leaning  a  flushed  countenance  against  the 

*  wall  of  the  car,  and  weeping  bitterly.    It  was  over  my  smashed 

*  writing-desk.    Yet  the  arrangements  for  luggage  are  excellent, 

*  if  the  porters  would  not  be  beyond  description  reckless.'  The 
same  excellence  of  provision,  and  flinging  away  of  its  advantages, 
are  observed  in  connection  with  another  subject  in  the  same  letter. 
'  The  halls  are  excellent.    Imagine  one  holding  two  thousand 

*  people,  seated  with  exact  equality  for  every  one  of  them,  and 
'  every  one  seated  separately.    I  have  nowhere,  at  home  or 

*  abroad,  seen  so  fine  a  police  as  the  police  of  New  York ;  and  police  of 

*  their  bearing  in  the  streets  is  above  all  praise.    On  the  other  ' 

*  hand,  the  laws  for  regulation  of  public  vehicles,  clearing  of 
'  streets,  and  removal  of  obstructions,  are  wildly  outraged  by  the 

*  people  for  whose  benefit  they  are  intended.    Yet  there  is  un- 

*  doubtedly  improvement  in  every  direction,  and  I  am  taking  time 
'  to  make  up  my  mind  on  things  in  general.    Let  me  add  that  I 

*  have  been  tempted  out  at  three  in  the  morning  to  visit  one  of 

*  the  large  police  station-houses,  and  was  so  fascinated  by  the 

*  study  of  a  horrible  photograph-book  of  thieves'  portraits  that  I 
'  couldn't  shut  it  up.* 

A  letter  of  the  same  date  (22nd)  to  his  sister-in-law  told  of  Again  in 

Boston. 

personal  attentions  awaitmg  him  on  his  return  to  Boston  by  which 
he  was  greatly  touched.  He  found  his  rooms  garnished  with 
flowers  and  holly,  with  real  red  berries,  and  with  festoons  of  moss  ; 
and  the  homely  Christmas  look  of  the  place  quite  affected  him, 

D  D  2 


404 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X. 


Ai«erica:  '  There  is  a  certain  Captain  DoUiver  belonging  to  the  Boston 
 *  custom-house,  who  came  off  in  the  Httle  steamer  that  brought  me 

*  ashore  from  the  Cuba  ;  and  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  he 
fSm  Eng  '  would  havc  a  piece  of  English  mistletoe  brought  out  in  this 
land.         <  week's  Cunard,  which  should  be  laid  upon  my  breakfast  table. 

*  And  there  it  was  this  morning.    In  such  affectionate  touches  as 

*  this,  these  New  England  people  are  especially  amiable.  .  .  As  a 

*  general  rule  you  may  lay  it  down  that  whatever  you  see  about 

*  me  in  the  papers  is  not  true  ;  but  you  may  generally  lend  a  more 
*■  believing  ear  to  the  Philadelphia  correspondent  of  the  Times^  a 

*  well-informed  gentleman.  Our  hotel  in  New  York  was  on  fire 
'  again  the  other  night.    But  fires  in  this  country  are  quite 

*  matters  of  course.    There  was  a  large  one  in  Boston  at  four 

*  this  morning ;  and  I  don't  think  a  single  night  has  passed,  since 

*  I  have  been  under  the  protection  of  the  Eagle,  that  I  have  not 

*  heard  the  Fire  Bells  dolefully  clanging  all  over  both  cities.' 
The  violent  abuse  of  his  manager  by  portions  of  the  press  is  the 
subject  of  the  rest  of  the  letter,  and  receives  farther  illustration  in 

Commou  One  of  the  same  date  to  me.  *  A  good  specimen  of  the  sort  of 
countries.    *  newspapcr  you  and  I  know  something  of,  came  out  in  Boston 

*  here  this  morning.    The  editor  had  applied  for  our  advertise- 

*  ments,  saying  that    it  was  at  Mr.  D's  disposal  for  paragraphs." 

*  The  advertisements  were  not  sent ;  Dolby  did  not  enrich  its 

*  columns  paragraphically ;  and  among  its  news  to-day  is  the  item 

*  that  "  this  chap  calling  himself  Dolby  got  dnmk  down  town  last 

*  "  night,  and  was  taken  to  the  police  station  for  fighting  an 

*  "  Irishman  ! "    I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  don't  find  anybody  to 

*  be  much  shocked  by  this  liveliness.'  It  is  right  to  add  what 
was  said  to  me  a  few  days  later.    *  The  Tribune  is  an  excellent 

Newspapers  *  paper.    Horacc  Greeley  is  editor  in  chief,  and  a  considerable 

(jenerally. 

*  shareholder  too.    All  the  people  connected  with  it  whom  I  have 

*  seen  are  of  the  best  class.    It  is  also  a  very  fine  property — but 

*  here  the  New  York  Herald  beats  it  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  ! 

*  Another  able  and  well  edited  paper  is  the  New  York  Times.  A 

*  most  respectable  journal  too  is  Bryant's  Evening  Post,  excellently 

*  written.     There  is  generally  a  much  more  responsible  and 

*  respectable  tone  than  prevailed  formerly,  however  small  may  be 


§  I.J       America:  November  and  December ^  1867.  405 


*  the  literary  merit,  among  papers  pointed  out  to  me  as  of  large  America  : 

*  circulation.    In  much  of  the  writing  there  is  certainly  improve-  

*  ment,  but  it  might  be  more  widely  spread/ 

The  time  had  now  come  when  the  course  his  Readings  were  to  Settling  the 

Tour. 

take  independently  of  the  two  leading  cities  must  be  settled,  and 
the  general  tour  made  out  His  agent's  original  plan  was  that 
they  should  be  in  New  York  every  week.    *  But  I  say  No.  By 

*  the  loth  of  January  I  shall  have  read  to  35,000  people  in  that 

*  city  alone.  Put  the  readings  out  of  the  reach  of  all  the  people 
'  behind  them,  for  the  time.    It  is  that  one  of  the  popular  pecu- 

*  liarities  which  I  most  particularly  notice,  that  they  must  not 

*  have  a  thing  too  easily.    Nothing  in  the  country  lasts  long ;  and  Noting 

*  a  thing  is  prized  the  more,  the  less  easy  it  is  made.    Reflecting  f^^^^^J^^^ 

*  therefore  that  I  shall  want  to  close,  in  April,  with  farewell  read- 

*  ings  here  and  in  New  York,  I  am  convinced  that  the  crush  and 

*  pressure  upon  these  necessary  to  their  adequate  success  is  only 

*  to  be  got  by  absence ;  and  that  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  not  to 

*  give  either  city  as  much  reading  as  it  wants  now,  but  to  be  inde- 

*  pendent  of  both  while  both  are  most  enthusiastic.  I  have  therefore 

*  resolved  presently  to  announce  in  New  York  so  many  readings 

*  (I  mean  a  certain  number)  as  the  last  that  can  be  given  there, 

*  before  I  travel  to  promised  places ;  and  that  we  select  the  best  Cities 

*  places,  with  the  largest  halls,  on  our  Hst.    This  will  include,  East  Readings. 

*  here — the  two  or  three  best  New  England  towns ;  South — Balti- 

*  more  and  Washington ;  West — Cincinnati,  Pittsburgh,  Chicago, 

*  and  St.  Louis  ;  and  towards  Niagara — Cleveland  and  Buffalo. 

*  Philadelphia  we  are  already  pledged  to,  for  six  nights ;  and  the 

*  scheme  will  pretty  easily  bring  us  here  again  twice  before  the 

*  farewells.  I  feel  convinced  that  this  is  the  sound  policy.'  (It 
was  afterwards  a  little  modified,  as  will  be  seen,  by  public  occur- 
rences and  his  own  condition  of  health ;  the  West,  as  well  as  a 
promise  to  Canada,  having  to  be  abandoned ;  but  otherwise  it 
was  carried  out.)     'I  read  here  to-morrow  and  Tuesday;  all 

*  tickets  being  sold  to  the  end  of  the  series,  even  for  subjects  not 

*  announced.  I  have  not  read  a  single  time  at  a  lower  clear 
'profit  per  night  (all  deductions  made)  than  ^£"315.  But  rely 
'  upon  it  I  shall  take  great  care  not  to  read  oftener  than  four 


4o6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookX. 


America:  *  timcs  a  Week — after  this  next  week,  when  I  stand  committed  to 
1867. 

•   *■  five.    The  inevitable  tendency  of  the  staff,  when  these  great 

*  houses  excite  them,  is,  in  the  words  of  an  old  friend  of  ours,  to 

*  "  hurge  the  hartist  hon ; "  and  a  night  or  two  ago  I  had  to  cut 

*  away  five  readings  from  their  list' 

An  incident  at  Boston  should  have  mention  before  he  resumes 
his  readings  in  New  York.    In  the  interval  since  he  was  first  in 
America,  the  Harvard  professor  of  chemistry,  Dr.  Webster,  whom 
he  had  at  that  visit  met  among  the  honoured  men  who  held  chairs 
The  murder  in  their  Cambridge  University,  had  been  hanged  for  the  murder, 
Profesor^    committed  in  his  laboratory  in  the  college,  of  a  friend  who  had 

Webster.  .  . 

lent  him  money,  portions  of  whose  body  lay  concealed  under  the 
lid  of  the  lecture-room  table  where  the  murderer  continued  to 
meet  his  students.  *  Being  in  Cambridge,*  Dickens  wrote  to  Lord 
Lytton,  *  I  thought  I  would  go  over  the  Medical  School,  and  see 

*  the  exact  localities  where  Professor  Webster  did  that  amazing 

*  murder,  and  worked  so  hard  to  rid  himself  of  the  body  of  the 

*  murdered  man.    (I  find  there  is  of  course  no  rational  doubt 

*  that  the  Professor  was  always  a  secretly  cruel  man.)  They  were 
'  horribly  grim,  private,  cold,  and  quiet ;  the  identical  furnace 

*  smelling  fearfully  (some  anatomical  broth  in  it  I  suppose)  as  if 

*  the  body  were  still  there  ;  jars  of  pieces  of  sour  mortality  stand- 
'  ing  about,  like  the  forty  robbers  in  Ali  Baba  after  being  scalded 

*  to  death ;  and  bodies  near  us  ready  to  be  carried  in  to  next 
'  morning's  lecture.    At  the  house  where  I  afterwards  dined  I 

*  heard  an  amazing  and  fearful  story ;  told  by  one  who  had  been 

*  at  a  dinner-party  of  ten  or  a  dozen,  at  Webster's,  less  than  a 
A  dinner  *  year  beforc  the  murder.  They  began  rather  uncomfortably,  in 
be'fo^r'^      '  consequence  of  one  of  the  guests  (the  victim  of  an  instinctive 

*  antipathy)  starting  up  with  the  sweat  pouring  down  his  face,  and 

*  crying  out,  "  O  Heaven  !     There's  a  cat  somewhere  in  the 

*  "  room  ! "    The  cat  was  found  and  ejected,  but  they  didn't  get 

*  on  very  well.    Left  with  their  wine,  they  were  getting  on  a  little 

*  better ;  when  Webster  suddenly  told  the  servants  to  turn  the 

*  gas  off  and  bring  in  that  bowl  of  burning  minerals  which  he  had 

*  prepared,  in  order  that  the  company  might  see  how  ghastly  they 

*  looked  by  its  weird  light    Ali  this  was  done,  and  every  man 


§  I.]       America:  November  and  December,  1867.  407 


*  was  looking,  horror-stricken,  at  his  neighbour ;  when  Webster  America  ; 

1867. 

*  was  seen  bending  over  the  bowl  with  a  rope  round  his  neck,  

*  holding  up  the  end  of  the  rope,  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his 

*  tongue  lolled  out,  to  represent  a  hanged  man ! ' 

Dickens  read  at  Boston  on  the  23rd  and  the  24th  of  December, 
and  on  Christmas  day  travelled  back  to  New  York  where  he  was 
to  read  on  the  26th.  The  last  words  written  before  he  left  were 
of  illness.  *  The  low  action  of  the  heart,  or  whatever  it  is,  has 
'  inconvenienced  me  greatly  this  last  week.    On  Monday  night, 

*  after  the  reading,  I  was  laid  upon  a  bed,  in  a  very  faint  and 

*  shady  state ;  and  on  the  Tuesday  I  did  not  get  up  till  the  after- 

*  noon.'    But  what  in  reality  was  less  grave  took  outwardly  the  I'^n^"* 
form  of  a  greater  distress ;  and  the  effects  of  the  cold  which  had 
struck  him  in  travelling  to  Boston,  as  yet  not  known  to  his 
English  friends,  appear  most  to  have  alarmed  those  about  him.  I 
depart  from  my  rule  in  this  narrative,  otherwise  strictly  observed, 

in  singling  out  one  of  those  friends  for  mention  by  name  :  but  a 
business  connection  with  the  Readings,  as  well  as  untiring  offices 
of  personal  kindness  and  sympathy,  threw  Mr.  Fields  into  closer 
relations  with  Dickens  from  arrival  to  departure,  than  any  other 
person  had ;  and  his  description  of  the  condition  of  health  in 
which  Dickens  now  quitted  Boston  and  went  through  the  rest  of 
the  labour  he  had  undertaken,  will  be  a  sad  though  fit  prelude  to 
what  the  following  chapter  has  to  tell.    *  He  went  from  Boston  to 

*  New  York  carrying  with  him  a  severe  catarrh  contracted  in  our 

*  climate.    He  was  quite  ill  from  the  effects  of  the  disease ;  but 

*  he  fought  courageously  against  them.  .  .  .  His  spirit  was  won- 

*  derful,  and,  although  he  lost  all  appetite  and  could  partake  of 

*  very  little  food,  he  was  always  cheerful  and  ready  for  his  work 

*  when  the  evening  came  round.    A  dinner  was  tendered  to  him  by  Mode  01 

*  some  of  his  literary  friends  in  Boston ;  but  he  was  so  ill  the  day  whuf  in 
'  before  that  the  banquet  had  to  be  given  up.    The  strain  upon 

*  his  strength  and  nerves  was  very  great  during  all  the  months  he 

*  remained,  and  only  a  man  of  iron  will  could  have  accomplished 

*  what  he  did.  He  was  accustomed  to  talk  and  write  a  good  deal 

*  about  eating  and  drinking,  but  I  have  rarely  seen  a  man  eat 

*  and  drink  less.     He  liked  to  dilate  in  imagination  over  the 


4o8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X. 


America:  *  brewing  of  a  bowl  of  punch,  but  when  the  punch  was  ready  he 
1867. 

 *  drank  less  of  it  than  any  one  who  might  be  present    It  was 

*  the  sentiment  of  the  thing  and  not  the  thing  itself  that  engaged 

*  his  attention.  I  scarcely  saw  him  eat  a  hearty  meal  during  his 
'  whole  stay.    Both  at  Parker's  hotel  in  Boston,  and  at  the  West- 

*  minster  in  New  York,  everything  was  arranged  by  the  proprietors 
'  for  his  comfort,  and  tempting  dishes  to  pique  his  invalid  appe- 

*  tite  were  sent  up  at  different  hours  of  the  day ;  but  the  influenza 
'  had  seized  him  with  masterful  power,  and  held  the  strong  man 

*  down  till  he  left  the  country.' 

At  New         When  he  arrived  in  New  York  on  the  evening  of  Christmas 

York  on 

Christmas    Day  he  found  a  letter  from  his  daughter.  Answering  her  next  day 

Day. 

he  told  her :  *  I  wanted  it  much,  for  I  had  a  frightful  cold  (English 

*  colds  are  nothing  to  those  of  this  country)  and  was  very  miserable. 
'  ....  It  is  a  bad  country  to  be  unwell  and  travelling  in.  You 

*  are  one  of,  say,  a  hundred  people  in  a  heated  car  with  a  great 
Misery  of  *  stove  in  it,  all  the  little  windows  being  closed ;  and  the  bumping 
J  ourneys.     '  and  banging  about  are  indescribable,  the  atmosphere  detestable, 

'  the  ordinary  motion  all  but  intolerable.'  The  following  day  this 
addition  was  made  to  the  letter.  *  I  managed  to  read  last  night, 
'  but  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do.    To-day  I  am  so  very  unwell 

*  that  I  have  sent  for  a  doctor.  He  has  just  been,  and  is  in  doubt 
'  whether  I  shall  not  have  to  stop  reading  for  a  while.* 

His  stronger  will  prevailed,  and  he  went  on  without  stopping. 
On  the  last  day  of  the  year  he  announced  to  us  that  though  he  had 
been  very  low  he  was  getting  right  again  ;  that  in  a  couple  of  days 
he  should  have  accomplished  a  fourth  of  the  entire  Readings ;  and 
that  the  first  month  of  the  new  year  would  see  him  through  Phi- 
ladelphia and  Baltimore,  as  well  as  through  two  more  nights  in 
Boston.  He  also  prepared  his  English  friends  for  the  startling 
intelligence  they  might  shortly  expect,  of  four  readings  coming  off 
in  a  church,  before  an  audience  of  two  thousand  people  accom- 
modated in  pews,  and  with  himself  emerging  from  a  vestry. 


§  ii.j       Afuerica:  January  to  Aprils  1868. 


409 


America  : 
1868. 

II.  " 

JANUARY  TO  APRIL. 
1868. 

The  Reading  on  the  third  of  January  closed  a  fourth  of  the 
entire  series,  and  on  that  day  Dickens  wrote  of  the  trouble 
brought  on  them  by  the  *  speculators/  which  to  some  extent  had 
affected  unfavourably  the  three  previous  nights  in  New  York.  When 
adventurers  bought  up  the  best  places,  the  public  resented  it  by 
refusing  the  worst  j  to  prevent  it  by  first  helping  themselves,  being 
the  last  thing  they  ever  thought  of  doing.   *  We  try  to  withhold  the  Speculators 

*  best  seats  from  the  speculators,  but  the  unaccountable  thing  is  public. 
'  that  the  great  mass  of  the  public  buy  of  them  (prefer  it),  and  the 

*  rest  of  the  public  are  injured  if  we  have  not  got  those  very  seats 

*  to  sell  them.    We  have  now  a  travelling  staff  of  six  men,  in 

*  spite  of  which  Dolby,  who  is  leaving  me  to-day  to  sell  tickets  in 
*■  Philadelphia  to-morrow  morning,  will  no  doubt  get  into  a 

*  tempest  of  difficulties.    Of  course  also,  in  such  a  matter,  as 

*  many  obstacles  as  possible  are  thrown  in  an  Englishman's  way ; 

*  and  he  may  himself  be  a  little  injudicious  into  the  bargain. 

*  Last  night,  for  instance,  he  met  one  of  the  "  ushers  "  (who  show 

*  people  to  their  seats)  coming  in  with  one  of  our  men.    It  is 

*  against  orders  that  any  one  employed  in  front  should  go 

*  out  during  the  reading,  and  he  took  this  man  to  task  in  the 

*  British  manner.    Instantly,  the  free  and  independent  usher  put 

*  on  his  hat  and  walked  off.    Seeing  which,  all  the  other  free  and 

*  independent  ushers  (some  20  in  number)  put  on  their  hats  and 

*  walked  off;  leaving  us  absolutely  devoid  and  destitute  of  a  staff 

*  for  to-night.  One  has  since  been  improvised  :  but  it  was  a 
'  small  matter  to  raise  a  stir  and  ill-will  about,  especially  as  one  of 

*  our  men  was  equally  in  fault ;  and  really  there  is  little  to  be  done 

*  at  night    American  people  are  so  accustomed  to  take  care  of  Repubiic;ji 

*  themselves,  that  one  of  these  immense  audiences  will  fall  into 
'  their  places  with  an  ease  amazing  to  a  frequenter  of  St.  James's 

*  Hall ;  and  the  certainty  with  which  they  are  all  in,  before  I  go 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,      [Book  X. 


America:  *  Oil,  is  a  very  acceptable  mark  of  respect.  Our  great  labour  is 
  *  outside ;  and  we  have  been  obliged  to  bring  our  staff  up  to  six, 

*  besides  a  boy  or  two,  by  employment  of  a  regular  additional 

*  clerk,  a  Bostonian.    The  speculators  buying  the  front-seats  (we 

*  have  found  instances  of  this  being  done  by  merchants  in  good 

*  position),  the  public  won't  have  the  back  seats ;  return  their 

*  tickets ;  write  and  print  volumes  on  the  subject ;  and  deter 

*  others  from  coming.    You  are  not  to  suppose  that  this  prevails 

*  to  any  great  extent,  as  our  lowest  house  here  has  been  ^300 ; 
Sos"^''^   '  ^^^s  hit  us.    There  is  no  doubt  about  it.    Fortunately  I 

*  saw  the  danger  when  the  trouble  began,  and  changed  the  list  at 

*  the  right  time.  .  .  .  You  may  get  an  idea  of  the  staff's  work, 

*  by  what  is  in  hand  now.    They  are  preparing,  numbering,  and 

*  stamping,  6000  tickets  for  Philadelphia,  and  8000  tickets  for 

*  Brooklyn.    The  moment  those  are  done,  another  8000  tickets 

*  will  be  wanted  for  Baltimore,  and  probably  another  6000  for 

*  Washington ;  and  all  this  in  addition  to  the  correspondence, 

*  advertisements,  accounts,  travelling,  and  the  nightly  business  of 

*  the  Readings  four  times  a  week.  ...  I  cannot  get  rid  of  this 

*  intolerable  cold !  My  landlord  invented  for  me  a  drink  of 
'  brandy,  rum,  and  snow,  called  it  a  "  Rocky  Mountain  Sneezer," 
'  and  said  it  was  to  put  down  all  less  effectual  sneezing ;  but  it  has 

*  not  yet  had  the  effect.  Did  I  tell  you  that  the  favourite  drink 
'  before  you  get  up  is  an  Eye-Opener  ?    There  has  been  another 

*  fall  of  snow,  succeeded  by  a  heavy  thaw.' 

Again  at         The  day  after  (the  4th)  he  went  back  to  Boston,  and  next 

Boston  : 

sth  Jan.  day  wrote  to  me  :  *  I  am  to  read  here  on  Monday  and  Tuesday, 
'  return  to  New  York  on  Wednesday,  and  finish  there  (except  the 
'  farewells  in  April)  on  Thursday  and  Friday.  The  New  York 
'  reading  of  Doctor  Marigold  made  really  a  tremendous  hit.  The 

*  people  doubted  at  first,  having  evidently  not  the  least  idea  what 
'  could  be  done  with  it,  and  broke  out  at  last  into  a  perfect  chorus 
'  of  delight.  At  the  end  they  made  a  great  shout,  and  gave  a  rush 

*  towards  the  platform  as  if  they  were  going  to  carry  me  off.  It 

*  puts  a  strong  additional  arrow  into  my  quiver.    Another  extra- 

*  ordinary  success  has  been  Nickleby  and  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree 

*  (appreciated  here  in  Boston,  by  the  bye,  even  more  than  Copper- 


J II.]        America:  yanuary  to  April,  1868. 


411 


Afield))  and  think  of  our  last  New  York  night  bringing  £^oo  America: 

*  English  into  the  house,  after  making  more  than  the  necessary  

*  deduction  for  the  present  price  of  gold !  The  manager  is  always 
'  going  about  with  an  immense  bundle  that  looks  like  a  sofa- 

*  cushion,  but  is  in  reality  paper-money,  and  it  had  risen  to  the 
'  proportions  of  a  sofa  on  the  morning  he  left  for  Philadelphia. 

*  Well,  the  work  is  hard,  the  climate  is  hard,  the  life  is  hard  :  but  The  labour 

*  so  far  the  gain  is  enormous.    My  cold  steadily  refuses  to  stir  an  gain. 

*  inch.  It  distresses  me  greatly  at  times,  though  it  is  always  good 
'  enough  to  leave  me  for  the  needful  two  hours.    I  have  tried 

*  allopathy,  homoeopathy,  cold  things,  warm  things,  sweet  things, 

*  bitter  things,  stimulants,  narcotics,  all  with  the  same  result 

*  Nothing  will  touch  it.' 

In  the  same  letter,  light  was  thrown  on  the  ecclesiastical 
mystery.  *  At  Brooklyn  I  am  going  to  read  in  Mr.  Ward  Beecher's 

*  chapel :  the  only  building  there  available  for  the  purpose;    You  chapd 

*  must  understand  that  Brooklyn  is  a  kind  of  sleeping-place  for  '^^^'^'"s*. 

*  New  York,  and  is  supposed  to  be  a  great  place  in  the  money 

*  way.    We  let  the  seats  pew  by  pew  !  the  pulpit  is  taken  down 

*  for  my  screen  and  gas !  and  I  appear  out  of  the  vestry  in 

*  canonical  form  !    These  ecclesiastical  entertainments  come  off 

*  on  the  evenings  of  the  i6th,  17th,  20th,  and  21st,  of  the  present 

*  month.'  His  first  letter  after  returning  to  New  York  (9th  of 
January)  made  additions  to  the  Brooklyn  picture.   *  Each  evening 

*  an  enormous  ferry-boat  will  convey  me  and  my  state-carriage 

*  (not  to  mention  half  a  dozen  wagons  and  any  number  of  people 

*  and  a  few  score  of  horses)  across  the  river  to  Brooklyn,  and  will 

*  bring  me  back  again.    The  sale  of  tickets  there  was  an  amazing 

*  scene.    The  noble  army  of  speculators  are  now  furnished  (this  Scene  at 

*  IS  literally  true,  and  I  am  quite  serious)  each  man  with  a  straw 

*  mattress,  a  httle  bag  of  bread  and  meat,  two  blankets,  and  a 

*  bottle  of  whiskey.  With  this  outfit,  they  lie  down  in  line  on  the pave- 
'  mmt  the  whole  of  the  night  before  the  tickets  are  sold  ;  generally 

*  taking  up  their  position  at  about  10.    It  being  severely  cold  at 

*  Brooklyn,  they  made  an  immense  bonfire  in  the  street — a  narrow 

*  street  of  wooden  houses — which  the  police  turned  out  to  ex- 

*  tuiguish.    A  general  fight  then  took  place  \  from  which  the 


412 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,      [Book  X. 


America:  *  people  farthest  off  in  the  line  rushed  bleediner  when  they  saw 

1868.       ^    ^  _  ° 
 '  any  chance  of  ousting  others  nearer  the  door,  put  their  mattresses 

*  in  the  spots  so  gained,  and  held  on  by  the  iron  rails.   At  8  in 

*  the  morning  Dolby  appeared  with  the  tickets  in  a  portmanteau. 

*  He  was  immediately  saluted  with  a  roar  of  Halloa !  Dolby ! 

*  So  Charley  has  let  you  have  the  carriage,  has  he,  Dolby  ?  How 

*  is  he,  Dolby  ?    Don't  drop  the  tickets,  Dolby !    Look  alive, 

*  Dolby !  &c.  &c.  &c.  in  the  midst  of  which  he  proceeded  to 

*  business,  and  concluded  (as  usual)  by  giving  universal  dissatis- 

*  faction.  He  is  now  going  off  upon  a  little  journey  to  look  over 
'  the  ground  and  cut  back  again.    This  little  journey  (to  Chicago) 

j^umij^     *  is  twelve  hundred  miles  on  end,  by  railway,  besides  the  back 

*  again  !  *  It  might  tax  the  Englishman,  but  was  nothing  to  the 
native  American.  It  was  part  of  his  New  York  landlord's  ordinary 
life  in  a  week,  Dickens  told  me,  to  go  to  Chicago  and  look  at 
his  theatre  there  on  a  Monday  j  to  pelt  back  to  Boston  and  look 
at  his  theatre  there  on  a  Thursday ;  and  to  come  rushing  to  New 
York  on  a  Friday,  to  apostrophize  his  enormous  ballet. 

Three  days  later,  still  at  New  York,  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in- 
law.    *  I  am  off  to  Philadelphia  this  evening  for  the  first  of  three 

*  visits  of  two  nights  each,  tickets  for  all  being  sold.    My  cold 

*  steadily  refuses  to  leave  me,  but  otherwise  I  am  as  well  as  I  can 

*  hope  to  be  under  this  heavy  work.    My  New  York  readings 

*  are  over  (except  the  farewell  nights),  and  I  look  forward  to  the 

*  relief  of  being  out  of  my  hardest  hall.    On  Friday  I  was  again 

*  dead  beat  at  the  end,  and  was  once  more  laid  upon  a  sofa. 

*  But  the  faintness  went  off  after  a  little  while.    We  have  now 

*  cold  bright  frosty  weather,  without  snow ;  the  best  weather  for 

*  me.'  Next  day  from  Philadelphia  he  wrote  to  his  daughter 
that  he  was  lodged  in  The  Continental,  one  of  the  most  immense 
of  American  hotels,  but  that  he  found  himself  just  as  quiet  as 

deiphia*"     elsewherc.    *  Everything  is  very  good,  my  waiter  is  German,  and 

*  the  greater  part  of  the  servants  seem  to  be  coloured  people. 

*  The  town  is  very  clean,  and  the  day  as  blue  and  bright  as  a 

*  fine  Italian  day.    But  it  freezes  very  very  hard,  and  my  cold  is 

*  not  improved ;  for  the  cars  were  so  intolerably  hot  that  I  was 

*  often  obliged  to  stand  upon  the  brake  outside,  and  then  the 


§11.]        America:  yanuary  to  April,  1868. 


413 


*  frosty  air  bit  me  indeed.    I  find  it  necessary  (so  oppressed  am  America: 

1868. 

*  I  with  this  American  catarrh  as  they  call  it)  to  dme  at  three   

*  o'clock  instead  of  four,  that  I  may  have  more  time  to  get  voice ; 

*  £0  that  the  days  are  cut  short  and  letter-writing  not  easy.' 

He  nevertheless  found  time  in  this  city  to  write  to  me  (14th  of 
January)  the  most  interesting  mention  he  had  yet  made  of  such 
opinions  as  he  had  been  able  to  form  during  his  present  visit, 
apart  from  the  pursuit  that  absorbed  him.  Of  such  of  those 
opinions  as  were  given  on  a  former  page,  it  is  only  necessary  to  ».  308. 
repeat  that  while  the  tone  of  party  politics  still  impressed  him 
unfavourably,  he  had  thus  far  seen  everywhere  great  changes  for 
the  better  socially.  I  will  add  other  points  from  the  same  letter. 
That  he  was  unfortunate  in  his  time  of  visiting  New  York,  as  far  irUh 

element  in 

as  its  politics  were  concerned,  what  has  since  happened  con-  New  York, 
clusively  shows.    *  The  Irish  element  is  acquiring  such  enormous 

*  influence  in  New  York  city,  that  when  I  think  of  it,  and  see 

*  the  large  Roman  Catholic  cathedral  rising  there,  it  seems  unfair 

*  to  stigmatise  as  "  American  "  other  monstrous  things  that  one 

*  also  sees.    But  the  general  corruption  in  respect  of  the  local 

*  funds  appears  to  be  stupendous,  and  there  is  an  alarming  thing 

*  as  to  some  of  the  courts  of  law  which  I  am  afraid  is  native- 

*  bom.    A  case  came  under  my  notice  the  other  day  in  which  it 

*  was  perfectly  plain,  from  what  was  said  to  me  by  a  person 

*  interested  in  resisting  an  injunction,  that  his  first  proceeding 

*  had  been  to  "look  up  the  Judge."'    Of  such  occasional  pro- 1 Looki^? 
vincial  oddity,  harmless  in  itself  but  strange  in  large  cities,  as  he  judges, 
noticed  in  the  sort  of  half  disappointment  at  the  small  fuss  made 

by  himself  about  the  Readings,  and  in  the  newspaper  references 
to  *  Mr.  Dickens's  extraordinary  composure '  on  the  platform,  he 
gives  an  illustration.    *  Last  night  here  in  Philadelphia  (my  first 

*  night),  a  very  impressible  and  responsive  audience  were  so 

*  astounded  by  my  simply  walking  in  and  opening  my  book  that 

*  I  wondered  what  was  the  matter.  They  evidently  thought  that 
'  there  ought  to  have  been  a  flourish,  and  Dolby  sent  in  to  pre- 

*  pare  for  me.    With  them  it  is  the  simplicity  of  the  operation 

*  that  raises  wonder.   With  the  newspapers  "  Mr.  Dickens's  extra- 

*  "  ordinary  composure  "  is  not  reasoned  out  as  being  necessary 


414 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  x. 


America  :  *  to  the  art  of  the  thing,  but  is  sensitively  watched  with  a  lurking 

 *  doubt  whether  it  may  not  imply  disparagement  of  the  audience. 

'  Both  these  things  strike  me  as  drolly  expressive.'  .  . 
rmprov«5d        His  testimony  as  to  improved  social  habits  and  ways  was 
wayi        expressed  very  decidedly.    *  I  think  it  reasonable  to  expect  that 

*  as  I  go  westward,  I  shall  find  the  old  manners  going  on  before 
'  me,  and  may  tread  upon  their  skirts  mayhap.    But  so  far,  I 

*  have  had  no  more  intrusion  or  boredom  than  I  have  when 

*  I  lead  the  same  life  in  England.    I  write  this  in  an  immense 

*  hotel,  but  I  am  as  much  at  peace  in  my  own  rooms,  and  am 

*  left  as  wholly  undisturbed,  as  if  I  were  at  the  Station  Hotel 
'  in  York.    I  have  now  read  in  New  York  city  to  40,000  people, 

*  and  am  quite  as  well  known  in  the  streets  there  as  I  am  in 

*  London.    People  will  turn  back,  turn  again  and  face  me,  and 

*  have  a  look  at  me,  or  will  say  to  one  another  "  Look  here ! 

*  "  Dickens  coming  ! "    But  no  one  ever  stops  me  or  addresses 

*  me.  Sitting  reading  in  the  carriage  outside  the  New  York 
'  post-office  while  one  of  the  staff  was  stamping  the  letters  inside, 

*  I  became  conscious  that  a  few  people  who  had  been  looking  at 

*  the  turn-out  had  discovered  me  within.  On  my  peeping  out 
'  good-humouredly,  one  of  them  (I  should  say  a  merchant's  book- 

*  keeper)  stepped  up  to  the  door,  took  off  his  hat,  and  said 

*  in  a  frank  way :  "  Mr.  Dickens,  I  should  very  much  like  to 

*  "  have  the  honour  of  shaking  hands  with  you  " — and,  that  done, 

*  presented  two  others.  Nothing  could  be  more  quiet  or  less 
'  intrusive.    In  the  railway  cars,  if  I  see  anybody  who  clearly 

*  wants  to  speak  to  me,  I  usually  anticipate  the  wish  by  speaking 
*■  myself.    If  I  am  standing  on  the  brake  outside  (to  avoid  the 

*  intolerable  stove),  people  getting  down  will  say  with  a  smile  : 

*  As  I  am  taking  my  departure,  Mr.  Dickens,  and  can't  trouble 

*  "  you  for  more  than  a  moment,  I  should  like  to  take  you  by 

*  "  the  hand  sir."    And  so  we  shake  hands  and  go  our  ways.  .  . 
In  the        *  Of  course  many  of  my  impressions  come  through  the  readings. 

*  Thus  I  find  the  people  lighter  and  more  humorous  than  formerly ; 

*  and  there  must  be  a  great  deal  of  innocent  imagination  among 

*  every  class,  or  they  never  could  pet  with  such  extraordinary 

*  pleasure  as  they  do,  the  Boots's  story  of  the  elopement  of  the 


§  II.]        America:  yanuary  to  April,  1868. 


415 


*  two  little  children.    They  seem  to  see  the  children ;  and  the  America  : 

^  1868. 

*  women  set  up  a  shrill  undercurrent  of  half-pity  and  half-pleasure  — 

*  that  is  quite  affecting.    To-night's  reading  is  my  26th ;  but  as 

*  all  the  Philadelphia  tickets  for  four  more  are  sold,  as  well  as 

*  four  at  Brooklyn,  you  must  assume  that  I  am  at — say — my  35th 

*  reading.    I  have  remitted  to  Coutts's  in  English  gold     10,000  Result  of 

.  .34  Read- 

*  odd ;  and  I  roughly  calculate  that  on  this  number  Dolby  will  mgs. 

*  have  another  thousand  pounds  profit  to  pay  me.    These  figures 

*  are  of  course  between  ourselves,  at  present ;  but  are  they  not 

*  magnificent  ?  The  expenses,  always  recollect,  are  enormous. 
'  On  the  other  hand  we  never  have  occasion  to  print  a  bill  of 

*  any  sort  (bill-printing  and  posting  are  great  charges  at  home)  ; 

*  and  have  just  now  sold  off  £,^0  worth  of  bill-paper,  provided 
'  beforehand,  as  a  wholly  useless  incumbrance.' 

Then  came,  as  ever,  the  constant  shadow  that  still  attended  Shadow  to 
him,  the  slave  in  the  chariot  of  his  triumph.    *  The  work  is  very  shine. 

*  severe.  There  is  now  no  chance  of  my  being  rid  of  this 
'  American  catarrh  until  I  embark  for  England.    It  is  very  dis- 

*  tressing.    It  likewise  happens,  not  seldom,  that  I  am  so  dead 

*  beat  when  I  come  off  that  they  lay  me  down  on  a  sofa  after 
'  I  have  been  washed  and  dressed,  and  I  lie  there,  extremely 

*  faint,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.    In  that  time  I  rally  and  come 

*  right.'  One  week  later  from  New'  York,  where  he  had  become 
due  on  the  i6th  for  the  first  of  his  four  Brooklyn  readings,  he 
wrote  to  his  sister-in-law.    *  My  cold  sticks  tu  me,  and  I  can 

*  scarcely  exaggerate  what  I  undergo  from  sleeplessness.  I  rarely  Faintnes* 
'  take  any  breakfast  but  an  egg  and  a  cup  of  tea — not  even  toast  fe'lsness.'* 

*  or  bread  and  butter.    My  small  dinner  at  3,  and  a  little  quail 

*  or  some  such  light  thing  when  I  come  home  at  night,  is  my 

*  daily  fare  \  and  at  the  hall  I  have  established  the  custom  of 

*  taking  an  egg  beaten  up  in  sherry  before  going  in,  and  another 

*  between  the  parts,  which  I  think  pulls  me  up.  .  .  .  It  is 

*  snowing  hard  now,  and  I  begin  to  move  to-morrow.  There  is 
'  so  much  floating  ice  in  the  river,  that  we  are  obliged  to  have  a 

*  pretty  wide  margin  of  time  for  getting  over  the  ferry  to  read.' 
The  last  of  the  readings  over  the  ferry  was  on  the  day  when  this 
letter  was  writtea     '  I  finished  at  my  church  to-night.     It  is 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


*  Mrs.  Stowe's  brother's,  and  a  most  wonderful  place  to  speak  in. 

*  We  had  it  enormously  full  last  night  {Marigold  and  Trial) ^  but 

*  it  scarcely  required  an  effort.    Mr.  Ward  Beecher  being  present 

*  in  his  pew,  I  sent  to  invite  him  to  come  round  before  he  left 

*  I  found  him  to  be  an  unostentatious,  evidently  able,  straight- 

*  forward,  and  agreeable  man ;  extremely  well-informed,  and  with 
'  a  good  knowledge  of  art.' 

Baltimore  and  Washington  were  the  cities  in  which  he  was 
now,  on  quitting  New  York,  to  read  for  the  first  time  ;  and  as  to 
the  latter  some  doubts  arose.  The  exceptional  course  had  been 
taken  in  regard  to  it,  of  selecting  a  hall  with  space  for  not  more 
than  700  and  charging  everybody  five  dollars ;  to  which  Dickens, 
at  first  greatly  opposed,  had  yielded  upon  use  of  the  argument, 

*  you  have  more  people  at  New  York,  shanks  to  the  speculators, 
'  paying  more  than  five  dollars  every  night.'  But  now  other  sug- 
gestions came.  *  Horace  Greeley  dined  with  me  last  Saturday,' 
he  wrote  on  the  20th,  *  and  didn't  like  my  going  to  Washington, 

*  now  full  of  the  greatest  rowdies  and  worst  kind  of  people  in 

*  the  States.  Last  night  at  eleven  came  B.  expressing  like 
'  doubts  ;  and  though  they  may  be  absurd  I  thought  them  worth 

*  attention,  B.  coming  so  close  on  Greeley.'  Mr.  Dolby  was  in 
consequence  sent  express  to  Washington  with  power  to  with- 
draw or  go  on,  as  enquiry  on  the  spot  might  dictate ;  and 
Dickens  took  the  additional  resolve  so  far  to  modify  the  last 
arrangements  of  his  tour  as  to  avoid  the  distances  of  Chicago, 
St.  Louis,  and  Cincinnati,  to  content  himself  with  smaller 
places  and  profits,  and  thereby  to  get  home  nearly  a  month 
earlier.  He  was  at  Philadelphia  on  the  23rd  of  January,  when 
he  announced  this  intention.    '  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  every- 

*  body  one  advises  with  has  a  monomania  respecting  Chicago. 

*  *'Good  heavens  sir,"  the  great  Philadelphia  authority  said 

*  to  me  this  morning,  *'  if  you  don't  read  in  Chicago  the  people 

*  "  will  go  into  fits  ! "    Well,  I  answered,  I  would  rather  they 

*  went  into  fits  than  I  did.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  see  it 
'  at  all.' 

From  Baltimore  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  on  the  29th,  in 
the  hour's  interval  he  had  to  spare  before  going  back  to  Phila- 


America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


4.17 


delphia.  *  It  has  been  snowing  hard  for  four  and  twenty  hours  A"^^'g<^^  * 
'  — though  this  place  is  as  far  south  as  Valentia  in  Spain ;  and  ^J^^J^j 

*  my  manager,  being  on  his  way  to  New  York,  has  a  good  chance 

*  of  being  snowed  up  somewhere.    This  is  one  of  the  places 

*  where  Butler  carried  it  with  a  high  hand  during  the  war,  and 

*  where  the  ladies  used  to  spit  when  they  passed  a  Northern 

*  soldier.    They  are  very  handsome  women,  with  an  Eastern 

*  touch  in  them,  and  dress  brilliantly.  I  have  rarely  seen  so 
'  many  fine  faces  in  an  audience.    They  are  a  bright  responsive 

*  people  likewise,  and  very  pleasant  to  read  to.    My  hall  is  a 

*  charming  little  opera  house  built  by  a  society  of  Germans  : 
'  quite  a  delightful  place  for  the  purpose.    I  stand  on  the  stage, 

*  with  the  drop  curtain  down,  and  my  screen  before  it.  The 

*  whole  scene  is  very  pretty  and  complete,  and  the  audience 

*  have  a  "  ring  "  in  them  that  sounds  deeper  than  the  ear.    I  go 

*  from  here  to  Philadelphia,  to  read  to-morrow  night  and  Friday ; 

'  come  through  here  again  on  Saturday  on  my  way  back  to  Wash-  Movenients 

*  ington ;  come  back  here  on  Saturday  week  for  two  finishing 

*  nights ;  then  go  to  Philadelphia  for  two  farewells — and  so  turn 

*  my  back  on  the  southern  part  of  the  country.    Our  new  plan 

*  will  give  82  readings  in  all.'  (The  real  number  was  76,  six 
having  been  dropped  on  subsequent  political  excitements.)    *  Of 

*  course  I  afterwards  discovered  that  we  had  finally  settled  the 
'  list  on  a  Friday.    I  shall  be  halfway  through  it  at  Washington ; 

*  of  course  on  a  Friday  also,  and  my  birthday.'  To  myself  he 
wrote  on  the  following  day  from  Philadelphia,  beginning  with  a 
thank  Heaven  that  he  had  struck  off  Canada  and  the  West,  for 
he  found  the  wear  and  tear  *  enormous.'    '  Dolby  decided  that 

*  the  croakers  were  wrong  about  Washington,  and  went  on ;  the 
'  rather  as  his  raised  prices,  which  he  put  finally  at  three  dollars 
'  each,  gave  satisfaction.    Fields  is  so  confident  about  Boston, 

*  that  my  remaining  list  includes,  in  all,  14  more  readings  there. 

*  I  don't  know  how  many  more  we  might  not  have  had  here 

*  (where  I  have  had  attentions  otherwise  that  have  been  very  huccess  ;n 

r   ,  X       -r  ,       1        ,  rr.-    ,  Philadcl- 

*  grateful  to  me),  if  we  had  chosen.    Tickets  are  now  being  phia. 
'  resold  at  ten  dollars  each.     At  Baltimore  I  had  a  charming 

*  little  theatre,  and  a  very  apprehensive  impulsive  audience.  It 

VOL.   II.  K  X 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


*■  is  remarkable  to  see  how  the  Ghost  of  Slavery  haunts  the 

*  town  ;  and  how  the  shambling,  untidy,  evasive,  and  postponing 

*  Irrepressible  proceeds  about  his  free  work,  going  round  and 

*  round  it,  instead  of  at  it.    The  melancholy  absurdity  of  giving 

*  these  people  votes,  at  any  rate  at  present,  would  glare  at  one 

*  out  of  every  roll  of  their  eyes,  chuckle  in  their  mouths,  and 

*  bump  in  their  heads,  if  one  did  not  see  (as  one  cannot  help 

*  seeing  in  the  country)  that  their  enfranchisement  is  a  mere 

*  party  trick  to  get  votes.    Being  at  the  Penitentiary  the  other 

*  day  (this,  while  we  mention  votes),  and  looking  over  the 

*  books,  I  noticed  that  almost  every  man  had  been  "  pardoned  " 

*  a  day  or  two  before  his  time  was  up.    Why  ?    Because,  if  he 

*  had  served  his  time  out,  he  would  have  been  ipso  facto  disfran- 

*  chised.    So,  this  form  of  pardon  is  gone  through  to  save  his 

*  vote ;  and  as  every  officer  of  the  prison  holds  his  place  only  in 
'  right  of  his  party,  of  course  bis  hopeful  clients  vote  for  the 

*  party  that  has  let  them  out !  When  I  read  in  Mr.  Beecher's 
*■  church  at  Brooklyn,  we  found  the  trustees  had  suppressed  the 

*  fact  that  a  certain  upper  gallery  holding  150  was  "  the  Coloured 
'  "  Gallery."    On  the  first  night  not  a  soul  could  be  induced  to 

*  enter  it ;  and  it  was  not  until  it  became  known  next  day  that  I 

*  was  certainly  not  going  to  read  there  more  than  four  times,  that 
'  we  managed  to  fill  it.    One  night  at  New  York,  on  our  second 

*  or  third  row,  there  were  two  well-dressed  women  with  a  tinge 

*  of  colour — I  should  say,  not  even  quadroons.    But  the  holder 

*  of  one  ticket  who  found  his  seat  to  be  next  them,  demanded  of 

*  Dolby  "  What  he  meant  by  fixing  him  next  to  those  two  Gord 
'  "  darmed  cusses  of  niggers  ?  "  and  insisted  on  being  supplied 
'  with  another  good  place.  Dolby  firmly  replied  that  he  was 
'  perfectly  certain  Mr.  Dickens  would  not  recognise  such  an  ob- 

*  jection  on  any  account,  but  he  could  have  his  money  back  if  he 

*  chose.  Which,  after  some  squabbling,  he  had.  In  a  comic 
'  scene  in  the  New  York  Circus  one  night,  when  I  was  looking 

*  on,  four  white  people  sat  down  upon  a  form  in  a  barber's  shop 

*  to  be  shaved.    A  coloured  man  came  as  the  fifth  customer,  and 

*  the  four  immediately  ran  away.    This  was  much  laughed  at  and 

*  applauded.    In  the  Baltimore  Penitentiary,  the  white  prisoners 


§11.]        America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


*■  dine  on  one  side  of  the  room,  the  coloured  prisoners  on  the  America  : 

1860. 

*  other ;  and  no  one  has  the  slightest  idea  of  mixing  them.  But  

But  in 

*  It  is  indubitably  the  fact  that  exhalations  not  the  most  agreeable  ivfute^  dor- 

mitories is 

*  arise  from  a  number  of  coloured  people  got  together,  and  I  was  "^^^^ 
*■  obliged  to  beat  a  quick  retreat  from  their  dormitory.    I  strongly 

*  believe  that  they  will  die  out  of  this  country  fast.    It  seems, 

*  looking  at  them,  so  manifestly  absurd  to  suppose  it  possible  that 

*  they  can  ever  hold  their  own  against  a  restless,  shifty,  striving, 

*  stronger  race.' 

On  the  fourth  of  February  he  wrote  from  Washington.    *  You 

*  may  like  to  have  a  line  to  let  you  know  that  it  is  all  right  here, 
*■  and  that  the  croakers  were  simply  ridiculous.    I  began  last 

*  night.    A  charming  audience,  no  dissatisfaction  whatever  at  the 

*  raised  prices,  nothing  missed  or  lost,  cheers  at  the  end  of  the 

*  Carols  and  rounds  upon  rounds  of  applause  all  through.  All 

*  the  foremost  men  and  their  families  had  taken  tickets  for  the 

'  series  of  four.  A  small  place  to  read  in.  ^300  in  it'  It  will  At  Wash- 
be  no  violation  of  the  rule  of  avoiding  private  detail  if  the  very 
interesting  close  of  this  letter  is  given.  Its  anecdote  of  President 
Lincoln  was  repeatedly  told  by  Dickens  after  his  return,  and  I  am 
under  no  necessity  to  withhold  from  it  the  authority  of  Mr. 
Sumner's  name.    *  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  see  the  President, 

*  who  has  sent  to  me  twice.    I  dined  with  Charles  Sumner  last 

*  Sunday,  against  my  rule  ;  and  as  I  had  stipulated  for  no  party, 
'  Mr.  Secretary  Stanton  was  the  only  other  guest,  besides  his 

*  own  secretary.     Stanton  is  a  man  with  a  very  remarkable 

*  memory,  and  extraordinarily  familiar  with  my  books.  .  .  .  He 

'  and  Sumner  having  been  the  first  two  public  men  at  the  dying  with  s.un- 
'  President's  bedside,  and  having  remained  with  him  until  he  stlnton. 
'  breathed  his  last,  we  fell  into  a  very  interesting  conversation  after 
'  dinner,  when,  each  of  them  giving  his  own  narrative  separately, 
'  rhe  usual  discrepancies  about  details  of  time  were  observable. 

*  Then  Mr.  Stanton  told  me  a  curious  little  story  which  will  form 
'  the  remainder  of  this  short  letter. 

*  On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  President  was  shot, 

*  there  was  a  cabinet  council  at  which  he  presided.  Mr.  Stanton, 
'  Heing  at  the  time  commander-iii-qhief  of  the  Northern  troops 

S  E  9 


420  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 

America  :  *  that  wcre  Concentrated  about  here,  arrived  rather  late.  Indeed 
1868.  ' 

'  they  were  waiting  for  him,  and  on  his  entering  the  room,  the 

Lincoln's  .  , 

Jast^cabinet  *  President  broke  off  in  something  he  was  saying,  and  remarked  : 

*  "  Let  us  proceed  to  business,  gentlemen."  Mr.  Stanton  then 
'  noticed,  with  great  surprise,  that  the  President  sat  with  an  air  of 
'  dignity  in  his  chair  instead  of  lolling  about  it  in  the  most  un- 

*  gainly  attitudes,  as  his  invariable  custom  was ;  and  that  instead 

*  of  telling  irrelevant  or  questionable  stories,  he  was  grave  and 

*  calm,  and  quite  a  different  man.    Mr.  Stanton,  on  leaving  the 

*  council  with  the  Attorney-General,  said  to  him,  "  That  is  the 

*  most  satisfactory  cabinet  meeting  I  have  attended  for  many  a 

*  "  long  day  !    What  an  extraordinary  change  in  Mr.  Lincoln  ! " 

*  The  Attorney-General  replied,  "  We  all  saw  it,  before  you  came 

*  "in.    While  we  were  waiting  for  you,  he  said,  with  his  chin 

*  "  down  on  his  breast,  *  Gentlemen,  something  very  extraordi- 
'  "  *  nary  is  going  to  happen,  and  that  very  soon.'  "    To  which 

*  the  Attorney-General  had  observed,  "  Something  good,  sir,  I 
'  "  hope  ?  "  when  the  President  answered  very  gravely  :  "  I  don't 

*  "  know  J  I  don't  know.    But  it  will  happen,  and  shortly  too  ! " 

*  As  they  were  all  impressed  by  his  manner,  the  Attorney-General 

*  took  him  up  again :  "  Have  you  received  any  information,  sir, 
Lincoln's     *  "  not  yet  discloscd  to  us?''    "No,"  answered  the  President: 

dream 

the  day      <  "  but  I  havc  had  a  dream.    And  I  have  now  had  the  same 

before 

death.        <  «  dream  three  times.    Once,  on  the  night  preceding  the  Battle 

*  "  of  Bull  Run.  Once,  on  the  night  preceding  "  such  another 
'  (naming  a  battle  also  not  favourable  to  the  North).    His  chin 

*  sank  on  his  breast  again,  and  he  sat  reflecting.    "  Might  one 

*  "ask   the  nature   of  this   dream,  sir?"  said  the  Attorney- 

*  General.    "Well,"  replied  the  President,  without  lifting  his 

*  head  or  changing  his  attitude,  "  I  am  on  a  great  broad  rolling 
<  «  river — and  I  am  in  a  boat — and  I  drift — and  I  drift ! — but 

*  "  this  is  not  business — "  suddenly  raising  his  face  and  looking 

*  round  the  table  as  Mr.  Stanton  entered,  "  let  us  proceed  to  busi- 

*  "  ness,  gentlemen."     Mr.  Stanton  and  the  Attorney-General 

*  said,  as  they  walked  on  together,  it  would  be  curious  to  notice 
'  whether  anything  ensued  on  this  ;  and  they  agreed  to  notice, 

*  He  was  shot  that  night.' 


§11.]         America:  January  to  Aprils  1868. 


42 


On  his  birthday,  the  seventh  of  February,  Dickens  had  his  America 
interview  with  President  Andrew  Johnson.    *  This  scrambling  

Interview 

scribblement  is  resumed  this  mommg,  because  I  have  just  seen  with 

President 

*  the  President :  who  had  sent  to  me  very  courteously  asking  me  Johnson. 

*  to  make  my  own  appointment    He  is  a  man  with  a  remarkable 

*  face,  indicating  courage,  watchfulness,  and  certainly  strength  of 

*  purpose.    It  is  a  face  of  the  Webster  type,  but  without  the 

*  "  bounce  *'  of  Webster's  face.    I  would  have  picked  him  out 

*  anywhere  as  a  character  of  mark.    Figure,  rather  stoutish  for  an 

*  American ;  a  trifle  under  the  middle  size ;  hands  clasped  in 

*  front  of  him  ;  manner,  suppressed,  guarded,  anxious.    Each  of 

*  us  looked  at  the  other  very  hard.  ...  It  was  in  his  own 

*  cabinet  that  I  saw  him.    As  I  came  away,  Thornton  drove  up 

*  in  a  sleigh — turned  out  for  a  state  occasion — to  deliver  his  cre- 

*  dentials.    There  was  to  be  a  cabinet  council  at  12.    The  room 

*  was  very  like  a  London  club's  ante-drawing  room.    On  the 

*  walls,  two  engravings  only :  one,  of  his  own  portrait ;  one,  of 

*  Lincoln's.  ...  In  the  outer  room  was  sitting  a  certain  sunburnt  An  old 

*  General  Blair,  with  many  evidences  of  the  war  upon  him.    He  ance. 

*  got  up  to  shake  hands  with  me,  and  then  I  found  that  he  had 

*  been  out  on  the  Prairie  with  me  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  .  .  . 
'  The  papers  having  referred  to  my  birthday's  falling  to-day,  my 

*  room  is  filled  with  most  exquisite  flowers.*    They  came  pouring 

*  in  from  all  sorts  of  people  at  breakfast  time.    The  audiences 

*  here  are  really  very  fine.    So  ready  to  laugh  or  cry,  and  doing 

*  both  so  freely,  that  you  would  suppose  them  to  be  Manchester 

*  shillings  rather  than  Washington  half-sovereigns.    Alas  !  alas  ! 

*  my  cold  worse  than  ever.'  So  he  had  written  too  at  the  opening 
of  his  letter. 

*  A  few  days  later  he  described  it  *  handsome  silver  travelling  bottle,  a 
to  his  daughter.    '  I  couldn't  help     *  set  of  gold  shirt  studs,  and  a  set  of 

*  laughing  at  myself  on  my  birthday  '  gold  sleeve  links,  were  on  the  dinner 
'  at  Washington  ;  it  was  observed  so     '  table.  Also,  by  hands  unknown,  the 

*  much  as  though  I  were  a  little  boy.     '  hall  at  night  was  decorated  ;  and 

*  Flowers  and  garlands  of  the  most  '  after  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree,  the 
'  exquisite  kind,  arranged  in  all  manner  'whole  audience  rose  and  remained, 
'  of  green  baskets,  bloomed  over  the     *  great  people  and  all,  standing  and 

*  room  :  letters  radiant  with  good  *  cheering,  until  I  went  back  to  the 
•wishes  poured  in;   a  shirt  pin,  a     '  table  and  made  them  a  little  speech.' 


422 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X 


America  : 


One  of  his 
Washington 
audience : 


at  second 

reading 

also: 


and  brings 
friend  to 
third. 


The  first  reading  had  been  four  days  earlier,  and  was  described 
to  his  daughter  in  a  letter  on  the  4th,  with  a  comical  incident 
that  occurred  in  the  course  of  it.  *  The  gas  was  very  defective 
'  indeed  last  night,  and  I  began  with  a  small  speech  to  the  effect 

*  that  I  must  trust  to  the  brightness  of  their  faces  for  the  illumina- 

*  tion  of  mine.  This  was  taken  greatly.  In  the  Carol  a  most 
'  ridiculous  incident  occurred.    All  of  a  sudden,  I  saw  a  dog  leap 

*  out  from  among  the  seats  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  look  very 

*  intently  at  me.    The  general  attention  being  fixed  on  me,  I 

*  don't  think  anybody  saw  this  dog  ;  but  I  felt  so  sure  of  his 

*  turning  up  again  and  barking,  that  I  kept  my  eye  wandering 

*  about  in  search  of  him.    He  was  a  very  comic  dog,  and  it  was 

*  well  for  me  that  I  was  reading  a  comic  part  of  the  book.  But 

*  when  he  bounced  out  into  the  centre  aisle  again,  in  an  entirely 

*  new  place,  and  (still  looking  intently  at  me)  tried  the  effect  of  a 

*  bark  upon  my  proceedings,  I  was  seized  with  such  a  paroxysm 

*  of  laughter  that  it  communicated  itself  to  the  audience,  and  we 

*  roared  at  one  another,  loud  and  long.'  Three  days  later  the 
sequel  came,  in  a  letter  to  his  sister-in-law.  *  I  mentioned  the 
'  dog  on  the  first  night  here  ?    Next  night,  I  thought  I  heard  (in 

*  Copperjield)  a  suddenly-suppressed  bark.    It  happened  in  this 

*  wise  :  One  of  our  people,  standing  just  within  the  door,  felt 
*■  his  leg  touched,  and  looking  down  beheld  the  dog,  staring 

*  intently  at  me,  and  evidently  just  about  to  bark.    In  a  transport 

*  of  presence  of  mind  and  fury,  he  instantly  caught  him  up  in 

*  both  hands,  and  threw  him  over  his  own  head,  out  into  the 

*  entry,  where  the  check-takers  received  him  like  a  game  at  ball. 

*  Last  night  he  came  again,  with  another  aog ;  but  our  people  were 
'  so  sharply  on  the  look-out  for  him  that  he  didn't  get  in.  He 
'  had  evidently  promised  to  pass  the  other  dog,  free.' 

What  is  expressed  in  these  letters,  of  a  still  active,  hopeful,  en- 
joying, energetic  spirit,  able  to  assert  itself  against  illness  of  the 
body  and  in  some  sort  to  overmaster  it,  was  also  so  strongly 
impressed  upon  those  who  were  with  him,  that,  seeing  his  suffer- 
ings as  they  did,  they  yet  found  it  difficult  to  understand  the 
extent  of  them.  The  sadness  thus  ever  underlying  his  triumph 
makes  if  all  very  tragical.     *  That  afternoon  of  my  birthday,'  he 


America:  yanuary  to  April,  1868. 


423 


wrote  from  Baltimore  on  the  nth,  'my  catarrh  was  in  such  a  America: 

loOo. 

'  state  that  Charles  Sumner,  coming  in  at  five  o'clock,  and  finding 

*  me  covered  with  mustard  poultice,  and  apparently  voiceless, 

*  turned  to  Dolby  and  said  :  "  Surely,  Mr.  Dolby,  it  is  impossible 
'  "  that  he  can  read  to-night ! "    Says  Dolby :  "  Sir,  I  have  told 

*  "  Mr.  Dickens  so,  four  times  to-day,  and  I  have  been  very 

*  '*  anxious.  But  you  have  no  idea  how  he  will  change,  when  he 
'  "  gets  to  the  Httle  table."    After  five  minutes  of  the  little  table 

*  I  was  not  (for  the  time)  even  hoarse.     The  frequent  expe- 

*  rience  of  this  return  of  force  when  it  is  wanted,  saves  me  a 

*  vast  amount  of  anxiety ;  but  I  am  not  at  times  without  the 

*  nervous  dread  that  I  may  some  day  sink  altogether.'  To  the 
same  effect  in  another  letter  he  adds  :  *  Dolby  and  Osgood/  the 
latter  represented  the  publishing  firm  of  Mr.  Fields  and  was  one 
of  the  travelling  staff,  *who  do  the  most  ridiculous  things  to 

*  keep  me  in  spirits  *  (I  am  often  very  heavy,  and  rarely  sleep 
'  much),  are  determined  to  have  a  walking  match  at  Boston 

*  on  the  last  day  of  February  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  the  day 

*  when  I  can  say  "  next  month  !  "  for  home.'    The  match  ended  On  the 
in  the  Englishman's  defeat  \  which  Dickens  doubly  commemo-  FebruLy. 
rated,  by  a  narrative  of  the  American  victory  in  sporting-news- 
paper style,  and  by  a  dinner  in  Boston  to  a  party  of  dear  friends 
there. 

After  Baltimore  he  was  reading  again  at  Philadelphia,  from 
which  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  on  the  13th  as  to  a  charac- 
teristic trait  observed  in  both  places.  *  Nothing  will  induce  the 
people  to  beheve  in  the  farewells.    At  Baltimore  on  Tuesday 

*  night  (a  very  brilliant  night  indeed),  they  asked  as  they  came 

*  out :  "  When  will  Mr.  Dickens  read  here  again  ? "    "  Never."  «  Never. 

*  "  Nonsense  !  Not  come  back,  after  such  houses  as  these  ? 
'  "  Come.  Say  when  he'll  read  again."  Just  the  same  here.  We 
'  could  as  soon  persuade  them  that  I  am  the  President,  as  that 

*  Mr.  Dolby  unconsciously  contri-  *  two  minutes,  and  the  audience  are 

buted  at  this  time  to  the  same  happy  *  earnestly  entreated  to  be  seated  ten 

result  by  sending  out  some  advertise-  *  hours   before    its  commencement.' 

ments  in  these  exact  words  :   '  The  He  had  transposed  the  minutes  and 

*  Reading  will  be  comprised  within  the  hours. 


424 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X. 


America:  <  to-morrow  night  I  am  going  to  read  here  for  the  last  time.  .  .  . 
1868. 

• — — — -  '  There  is  a  child  in  this  house — a  little  girl — to  whom  I  pre- 

In  his  hotel  °  ^ 

at  Phiia-     <  sented  a  black  doll  when  I  was  here  last ;  and  as  I  have  just 

(lelphia.  ' 

*  seen  her  eye  at  the  keyhole  since  I  began  writing  this,  I  think 

*  she  and  the  doll  must  be  outside  still.    "  When  you  sent  it  up 

*  "to  me  by  the  coloured  boy,"  she  said  after  receiving  it 

*  (coloured  boy  is  the  term  for  black  waiter),  "  I  gave  such  a 

*  cream  that  Ma  come  running  in  and;  creamed  too,  'cos  she 

*  fort  I'd  hurt  myself.   But  I  creamed  a  cream  of  joy."    She  had 

*  a  friend  to  play  with  her  that  day,  and  brought  the  friend  with 
'  her — to  my  infinite  confusion.  A  friend  all  stockings  and  much 
'  too  tall,  who  sat  on  the  sofa  very  far  back  with  her  stockings 

*  sticking  stiffly  out  in  front  of  her,  and  glared  at  me,  and  never 

*  spake  a  word.    Dolby  found  us  confronted  in  a  sort  of  fascina- 

*  tion,  like  serpent  and  bird.' 

On  the  15th  he  was  again  at  New  York,  in  the  thick  of  more 
troubles  with  the  speculators.  They  involved  even  charges  of 
fraud  in  ticket-sales  at  Newhaven  and  Providence ;  indignation 
meetings  having  been  held  by  the  Mayors,  and  unavailing  at- 
tempts made  by  his  manager  to  turn  the  wTath  aside.    *  I  expect 

*  him  back  here  presently  half  bereft  of  his  senses,  and  I  should 

*  be  wholly  bereft  of  mine  if  the  situation  were  not  comical  as  well 
'  as  disagreeable.  We  can  sell  at  our  own  box-office  to  any 
^  extent ;  but  we  cannot  buy  back  of  the  speculators,  because  we 
'  have  informed  the  public  that  all  the  tickets  are  gone ;  and 
'  even  if  we  made  the  sacrifice  of  buying  at  their  price  and 

*  selling  at  ours,  we  should  be  accused  of  treating  with  them  and 
ProvKience  '  of  making  money  by  it.'  It  ended  in  Providence  by  his  going 
haven,       himself  to  the  place  and  making  a  speech ;  and  in  Newhaven  it 

ended  by  his  sending  back  the  money  taken,  with  intimation  that 
he  would  not  read  until  there  had  been  a  new  distribution  of  the 
tickets  approved  by  all  the  town.  Fresh  disturbance  broke  out 
upon  this  ;  but  he  stuck  to  his  determination  to  delay  the  reading 
until  the  heats  had  cooled  down,  and  what  should  have  been 
given  in  the  middle  of  February  he  did  not  give  until  the  close  oi 
March. 

The  Readings  he  had  promised  at  the  smaller  outlying  places 


§  II.]        America:  jfanuary  to  April,  1868. 


425 


by  the  Canadian  frontier  and  Niagara  district,  including  Syracuse,  America: 

1868. 

Rochester,  and  Buffalo,  were  appointed  for  that  same  March  

month  which  was  to  be  the  interval  between  the  close  of  the  ordi- 
nary readings  and  the  farewells  in  the  two  leading  cities.  All  g^l'oJ  *° 
that  had  been  promised  in  New  York  were  closed  when  he  re- 
turned to  Boston  on  the  23rd  of  February,  ready  for  the  increase 
he  had  promised  there  ;  but  the  check  of  a  sudden  political 
excitement  came.  It  was  the  month  when  the  vote  was  taken 
for  impeachment  of  President  Johnson.  *  It  is  well*  (25th  of 
February)  *  that  the  money  has  flowed  in  hitherto  so  fast,  for  I 
'  have  a  misgiving  that  the  great  excitement  about  the  President's 
'  impeachment  will  damage  our  receipts.  .  .  .  The  vote  was  taken 

*  at  5  last  night    At  7  the  three  large  theatres  here,  all  in  a  rush 

*  of  good  business,  were  stricken  with  paralysis.    At  8  our  long 

*  line  of  outsiders  waiting  for  unoccupied  places,  was  nowhere. 

*  To-day  you  hear  all  the  people  in  the  streets  talking  of  only  one 
'  thing.  I  shall  suppress  my  next  week's  promised  readings  (by 
'  good  fortune,  not  yet  announced),  and  watch  the  course  of 
'events.    Nothing  in  this  country,  as  I  before  said,  lasts  lo^^g  ;  I'^^jf /jj  "f . 

*  and  I  think  it  likely  that  the  public  may  be  heartily  tired  of  the 

*  President's  name  by  the  9th  of  March,  when  I  read  at  a  con- 

*  siderable  distance  from  here.  So  behold  me  with  a  whole 
'  week's  holiday  in  view  ! '  Two  days  later  he  wrote  pleasantly  to 
his  sister-in-law  of  his  audiences.    '  They  have  come  to  regard 

*  the  Readings  and  the  Reader  as  their  peculiar  property;  and 

*  you  would  be  both  amused  and  pleased  if  you  could  see  the 
'  curious  way  in  which  they  show  this  increased  interest  in  both. 

'  Whenever  they  laugh  or  cry,  they  have  taken  to  applauding  as  Boston 

...  .  audiences^ 

*  well ;  and  the  result  is  very  inspiritmg.  I  shall  remain  here 
'  until  Saturday  the  7th  ;  but  after  to-morrow  night  shall  not  read 

*  here  until  the  1st  of  April,  when  I  begin  my  farewells — six  in 

*  number.'    On  the  28th  he  wrote:  'To-morrow  fortnight  M'e 

*  purpose  being  at  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and  then  we  shall  come 

*  back  and  really  begin  to  wind  up.    I  have  got  to  know  the 

*  Carol  so  well  that  I  can't  remember  it,  and  occasionally  go 
'  dodging  about  in  the  wildest  manner,  to  pick  up  lost  pieces. 
'  They  took  it  so  tremendously  last  night  that  I  was  stopped 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  X. 


*  every  five  minutes.  One  poor  young  girl  in  mourning  burst  into 
'  a  passion  of  grief  about  Tiny  Tim,  and  was  taken  out.  We  had  a 

*  fine  house,  and,  in  the  interval  while  I  was  out,  they  covered 
the  little  table  with  flowers.    The  cough  has  taken  a  fresh  start 

*  as  if  it  were  a  novelty,  and  is  even  worse  than  ever  to-day. 

*  There  is  a  lull  in  the  excitement  about  the  President :  but  the 

*  articles  of  impeachment  are  to  be  produced  this  afternoon,  and 

*  then  it  may  set  in  again.    Osgood  came  into  camp  last  night 

*  from  selling  in  remote  places,  and  reports  that  at  Rochester  and 

*  Buffalo  (both  places  near  the  frontier),  tickets  were  bought  by 
'  Canada  people,  who  had  struggled  across  the  frozen  river  and 

*  clambered  over  all  sorts  of  obstructions  to  get  them.    Some  of 

*  those  distant  halls  turn  out  to  be  smaller  than  represented ;  but 

*  I  have  no  doubt — to  use  an  American  expression — that  we  shall 

*  "  get  along."  The  second  half  of  the  receipts  cannot  reasonably 
'  be  expected  to  come  up  to  the  first ;  political  circumstances,  and 

*  all  other  surroundings,  considered.' 

His  old  ill  luck  in  travel  pursued  him.  On  the  day  his  letter 
was  written  a  snow-storm  began,  with  a  heavy  gale  of  wind  ;  and 
^  after  all  the  hard  weather  gone  through,*  he  wrote  on  the  2nd  of 
March,  '  this  is  the  worst  day  we  have  seen.    It  is  telegraphed 

*  that  the  storm  prevails  over  an  immense  extent  of  country,  and 

*  is  just  the  same  at  Chicago  as  here.    I  hope  it  may  prove  a  wind 

*  up.  We  are  getting  sick  of  the  very  sound  of  sleigh-bells  even.' 
The  roads  were  so  bad  and  the  trains  so  much  out  of  time,  that 
he  had  to  start  a  day  earlier ;  and  on  the  6th  of  March  his  tour 
north-west  began,  with  the  gale  still  blowing  and  the  snow  falling 
heavily.    On  the  13th  he  wrote  to  me  from  Buffalo. 

'  We  go  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara  to-morrow  for  our  own  pleasure ; 
'  and  I  take  all  the  men,  as  a  treat.    We  found  Rochester  last 

*  Tuesday  in  a  very  curious  state.    Perhaps  you  know  that  the 

*  Great  Falls  of  the  Genessee  River  (really  very  fine,  even  so  near 

*  Niagara)  are  at  that  place.    In  the  height  of  a  sudden  thaw,  an 

*  immense  bank  of  ice  above  the  rapids  refused  to  yield  ;  so  that 

*  the  town  was  threatened  (for  the  second  time  in  four  years)  with 

*  submersion.    Boats  were  ready  in  the  streets,  all  the  people 

*  were  up  all  night,  and  none  but  the  children  slept.    In  the  dead 


§11.] 


America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


427 


*  of  the  night  a  thundering  noise  was  heard,  the  ice  gave  way,  the  ^^^^^^^ 

*  swollen  river  came  raging  and  roaring  down  the  Falls,  and  the 

*  town  was  safe.    Very  picturesque  !  but  "  not  very  good  for 

*  "  business,"  as  the  manager  says.    Especially  as  the  hall  stands 

*  in  the  centre  of  danger,  and  had  ten  feet  of  water  in  it  on  the 

*  last  occasion  of  flood.    But  I  think  we  had  above  ^£'200  English. 

*  On  the  previous  night  at  Syracuse — a  most  out  of  the  way  and  -^^^^g^^j^^J 

*  unintelligible-looking  place,  with  apparently  no  people  in  it —  Buffalo. 

*  we  had  ;£"375  odd.    Here  we  had,  last  night,  and  shall  have  to- 

*  night,  whatever  we  can  cram  into  the  hall. 

*  This  Buffalo  has  become  a  large  and  important  town,  with 

*  numbers  of  German  and  Irish  in  it.    But  it  is  very  curious  to 

*  notice,  as  we  touch  the  frontier,  that  the  American  female  beauty 
'  dies  out ;  and  a  woman's  face  clumsily  compounded  of  German, 

*  Irish,  Western  America,  and  Canadian,  not  yet  fused  together, 

*  and  not  yet  moulded,  obtains  instead.    Our  show  of  Beauty  at 

*  night  is,  generally,  remarkable ;  but  we  had  not  a  dozen  pretty 

*  women  in  the  whole  throng  last  night,  and  the  faces  were  all 

*  blunt.    I  have  just  been  walking  about,  and  observing  the  same 

*  thing  in  the  streets.  .  .  The  winter  has  been  so  severe,  that  the 

*  hotel  on  the  English  side  at  Niagara  (which  has  the  best  view  of 

*  the  Falls,  and  is  for  that  reason  very  preferable)  is  not  yet  open. 

*  So  we  go,  perforce,  to  the  American  :  which  telegraphs  back  to 

*  our  telegram  :  "  all  Mr.  Dickens's  requirements  perfectly  under 

*  "  stood."    I  have  not  yet  been  in  more  than  two  very  bad  inns. 

*  I  have  been  in  some,  where  a  good  deal  of  what  is  popularly 

*  called  *'  slopping  round  "  has  prevailed  :  but  have  been  able  '  slopping 

'round.' 

'  to  get  on  very  well.    "  Slopping  round,"  so  used,  means  untidy- 

*  ness  and  disorder.    It  is  a  comically  expressive  phrase,  and  has 

*  many  meanings.    Fields  was  asking  the  price  of  a  quarter-cask 

*  of  sherry  the  other  day.    "  Wa'al  Mussr  Fields,"  the  merchant 

*  replies,  "  that  varies  according  to  quality,  as  is  but  nay'tral.  If 

*  "  yer  wa'ant  a  sherry  just  to  slop  round  with  it,  I  can  fix  you 
'  "  some  at  a  very  low  figger." ' 

His  letter  was  resumed  at  Rochester  on  the  i8th.    *  After  two 

*  most  brilliant  days  at  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  we  got  back  here  last 

*  night.    To-morrow  morning  we  turn  out  at  6  for  a  long  railway 


428 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


Suspension 
bridge  at 
Niagara. 


Final  im- 
pression of 
the  Falls. 


Prospects 
of  travel. 
i8th  Feb. 


*  journey  back  to  Albany.    But  it  is  nearly  all     back "  now, 

*  thank  God !  I  don't  know  how  long,  though,  before  turning, 
'  we  might  have  gone  on  at  Buffalo.  .  .  We  went  everywhere  at 
'  the  Falls,  and  saw  them  in  every  aspect.  There  is  a  suspension 
*■  bridge  across,  now,  some  two  miles  or  more  from  the  Horse 
'  Shoe  ;  and  another,  half  a  mile  nearer,  is  to  be  opened  in  July. 
'  They  are  very  fine  but  very  ticklish,  hanging  aloft  there,  in  the 

*  continual  vibration  of  the  thundering  water :  nor  is  one  greatly 
'  reassured  by  the  printed  notice  that  troops  must  not  cross  them 
'  at  step,  that  bands  of  music  must  not  play  in  crossing,  and  the 
'  like.  I  shall  never  forget  the  last  aspect  in  which  we  saw 
'  Niagara  yesterday.  We  had  been  everywhere,  when  I  thought 
'  of  struggling  (in  an  open  carriage)  up  some  very  difficult  ground 

*  for  a  good  distance,  and  getting  where  we  could  stand  above  the 

*  river,  and  see  it,  as  it  rushes  forward  to  its  tremendous  leap, 
'  coming  for  miles  and  miles.    All  away  to  the  horizon  on  our 

*  right  was  a  wonderful  confusion  of  bright  green  and  white  water. 

*  As  we  stood  watching  it  with  our  faces  to  the  top  of  the  Falls, 

*  our  backs  were  towards  the  sun.    The  majestic  valley  below  the 

*  Falls,  so  seen  through  the  vast  cloud  of  spray,  was  made  of 

*  rainbow.     The  high  banks,  the  riven  rocks,  the  forests,  the 

*  bridge,  the  buildings,  the  air,  the  sky,  were  all  made  of  rainbow. 
'  Nothing  in  Turner's  finest  water-colour  drawings,  done  in  his 

*  greatest  day,  is  so  ethereal,  so  imaginative,  so  gorgeous  in 
'  colour,  as  what  I  then  beheld.    I  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  the 

*  earth  and  to  be  looking  into  Heaven.  What  I  once  said  to  you, 
'  as  I  witnessed  the  scene  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  all  came 
'  back  at  this  most  affecting  and  sublime  sight.  The  muddy 
'  "  vesture  ot  our  clay  "  falls  from  us  as  we  look.  ...  I  chartered 
'  a  separate  carriage  for  our  men,  so  that  they  might  see  all  in 

*  their  own  way,  and  at  their  own  time. 

*  There  is  a  great  deal  of  water  out  between  Rochester  and 
'  New  York,  and  travelling  is  very  uncertain,  as  I  fear  we  may 

*  find  to-morrow.  There  is  again  some  little  alarm  here  on 
'  account  of  the  river  rising  too  fast.    But  our  to-night's  house  is 

*  far  ahead  of  the  first.    Most  charming  halls  in  these  places  ; 

*  excellent  for  sight  and  sound.     Almost   invariably  built  as 


§  II.]        America:  JamLary  to  April,  1868. 


429 


*  theatres,  with  stage,  scenery,  and  good  dressing-rooms.  Audience  America  : 

1868. 

*  seated  to  perfection  (every  seat  always  separate),  excellent  door  

*  ways  and  passages,  and  brilliant  light.    My  screen  and  gas  are 

*  set  up  in  front  of  the  drop-curtain,  and  the  most  delicate  touches 

*  will  tell  anywhere.    No  creature  but  my  own  men  ever  near  me.' 

His  anticipation  of  the  uncertainty  that  might  beset  his  travel 
back  had  dismal  fulfilment.  It  is  described  in  a  letter  written  on 
the  2ist  from  Springfield  to  his  valued  friend,  Mr.  Frederic  Ouvry, 
having  much  interest  of  its  own,  and  making  lively  addition  to 
the  picture  which  these  chapters  give.  The  unflagging  spirit  that 
bears  up  under  all  disadvantages  is  again  marvellously  shown. 

*  You  can  hardly  imagine  what  my  life  is  with  its  present  con- 

*  ditions — how  hard  the  work  is,  and  how  little  time  I  seem  to 

*  have  at  my  disposal.    It  is  necessary  to  the  daily  recovery  of  my  Way  of  life. 

*  voice  that  I  should  dine  at  3  when  not  travelling ;  I  begin  to 

*  prepare  for  the  evening  at  6  ;  and  i  get  back  to  my  hotel,  pretty 

*  well  knocked  up,  at  half-past  10.    Add  to  all  this,  perpetual 

*  railway  travelling  in  one  of  the  severest  winters  ever  known ; 

*  and  you  will  descry  a  reason  or  two  for  my  being  an  indifferent 

*  correspondent.  Last  Sunday  evening  I  left  the  Falls  of  Niagara 
'  for  this  and  two  intervening  places.    As  there  was  a  great  thaw, 

*  and  the  melted  snow  was  swelling  all  the  rivers,  the  whole 

*  country  for  three  hundred  miles  was  flooded.    On  the  Tuesday 

*  afternoon  (I  had  read  on  the  Monday)  the  train  gave  in,  as 
under  circumstances  utterly  hopeless,  and  stopped  at  a  place 

*  called  Utica ;  the  greater  part  of  which  was  under  water,  while  At  utica. 
'  the  high  and  dry  part  could  produce  nothing  particular  to  eat. 

*  Here,  some  of  the  wretched  passengers  passed  the  night  in  the 

*  train,  while  others  stormed  the  hotel.    I  was  fortunate  enough 

*  to  get  a  bed-room,  and  garnished  it  with  an  enormous  jug  of 

*  gin-punch  ;  over  which  I  and  the  manager  played  a  double- 

*  dummy  rubber.    At  six  in  the  morning  we  were  knocked  up  : 

*  "  to  come  aboard  and  try  it."    At  half-past  six  we  were  knocked 

*  up  again  with  the  tidings  "  that  it  was  of  no  use  coming  aboard 

*  "  or  trying  it."    At  eight  all  the  bells  in  the  town  were  set 

*  agoing,  to  summon  us  to  "  come  aboard "  instantly.    And  so 

*  we  started,  through  the  water,  at  four  or  five  miles  an  hour ; 


430 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X, 


America  :  *  Seeing  nothing  but  drowned  farms,  barns  adrift  like  Noah's  arks, 
 *■  deserted  villages,  broken  bridges,  and  all  manner  of  ruin.    I  was 

*  to  read  at  Albany  that  night,  and  all  the  tickets  were  sold.  A 
*■  very  active  superintendent  of  works  assured  me  that  if  I  could 

Getting      <  be  "  got  along,"  he  was  the  man  to  get  me  along  :  and  that  if  I 

*  couldn't  be  got  along,  I  might  conclude  that  it  couldn't  possibly 

*  be  fixed.    He  then  turned  on  a  hundred  men  in  seven-league 

*  boots,  who  went  ahead  of  the  train,  each  armed  with  a  long  pole 
'  and  pushing  the  blocks  of  ice  away.    Following  this  cavalcade, 

*  we  got  to  land  at  last,  and  arrived  in  time  for  me  to  read  the 
'  Carol  and  Trial  triumphantly.    My  people  (I  had  five  of  the 

*  staff  with  me)  turned  to  at  their  work  with  a  will,  and  did  a  day's 
At  Albany.   <■  labour  in  a  couple  of  hours.    If  we  had  not  come  in  as  we  did, 

'  I  should  have  lost  ^£350,  and  Albany  would  have  gone  dis- 
'  tracted.    You  may  conceive  what  the  flood  was,  when  I  hint  at 

*  the  two  most  notable  incidents  of  our  journey  : — i,  We  took  the 
'  passengers  out  of  two  trains,  who  had  been  in  the  water,  im- 
'  movable  all  night  and  all  the  previous  day.  2,  We  released  a 
'  large  quantity  of  sheep  and  cattle  from  trucks  that  had  been  in 
'  the  water  I  don't  know  how  long,  but  so  long  that  the  creatures 

in  them  had  begun  to  eat  each  other,  and  presented  a  most 

*  horrible  spectacle.'  * 

New  Eng.  Besidc  Springfield,  he  had  engagements  at  Portland,  New 
gagtments.  Bedford,  and  other  places  in  Massachusetts,  before  the  Boston 
farewells  began ;  and  there  wanted  but  two  days  to  bring  him  to 
that  time,  when  he  thus  described  to  his  daughter  the  labour 
which  was  to  occupy  them.  His  letter  was  from  Portland  on  the 
29th  of  March,  and  it  will  be  observed  that  he  no  longer  com- 
promises or  glozes  over  what  he  was  and  had  been  suffering. 
During  his  terrible  travel  to  Albany  his  cough  had  somewhat 
spared  him,  but  the  old  illness  had  broken  out  in  his  foot ;  and, 

*  What  follows  is  from  the  close  of  *  had  the  second  officer's  cabin  on 

the  letter.    '  On  my  return,  I  have  '  deck  when  I  came  out ;  and  I  am  to 

For  ever.'    *  arranged  with  Chappell  to  take  my  *  have  the  chief  steward's  going  home. 

'  leave  of  reading  for  good  and  all,  in  *  Cunard  was  so  considerate  as  to  re- 

*  a  hundred  autumnal  and  winter  *  member  that  it  will  be  on  the  sunny 
'  Farewells  for  ever.    I  return  by  the  '  side  of  the  vessel.' 

*  Cunard   steam-ship    "Russia."  I 


§  II.]        America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


431 


though  he  persisted  in  ascribing  it  to  the  former  supposed  origin  America  : 
('having  been  lately  again  wet,  from  walking  in  melted  snow,  — ■ 

r  '  •        •       1  Again  at- 

*  which  I  suppose  to  be  the  occasion  of  its  swelling  m  the  old  tacked  by 

lameness. 

*  way '),  it  troubled  him  sorely,  extended  now  at  intervals  to  the 
right  foot  also,  and  lamed  him  for  all  the  time  he  remained  in  the 
States.    *  I  should  have  written  to  you  by  the  last  mail,  but  I 

*  really  was  too  unwell  to  do  it.    The  writing  day  was  last  Friday, 

*  when  I  ought  to  have  left  Boston  for  New  Bedford  (55  miles) 

*  before  eleven  in  the  morning.  But  I  was  so  exhausted  that  I 
'  could  not  be  got  up,  and  had  to  take  my  chance  of  an  evening 

*  train's  producing  me  in  time  to  read — which  it  just  did.  With 
*■  the  return  of  snow,  nine  days  ago,  my  cough  became  as  bad  as 

*  ever.  I  have  coughed  every  morning  from  two  or  three  till  five 
'  or  six,  and  have  been  absolutely  sleepless.  I  have  had  no 
'  appetite  besides,  and  no  taste.*  Last  night  here,  I  took  some 
'  laudanum ;  and  it  is  the  only  thing  that  has  done  me  good, 
'  though  it  made  me  sick  this  morning.  But  the  life,  in  this 
'  climate,  is  so  very  hard !  When  I  did  manage  to  get  to  New 
'  Bedford,  I  read  with  my  utmost  force  and  vigour.  Next 
'  morning,  well  or  ill,  I  must  turn  out  at  seven,  to  get  back  to 
'  Boston  on  my  way  here.  I  dined  at  Boston  at  three,  and  at  five 
'  had  to  come  on  here  (a  hundred  and  thirty  miles  or  so)  for  to- 
*■  morrow  night :  there  being  no  Sunday  train.    To-morrow  night 

*  I  read  here  in  a  very  large  place ;  and  Tuesday  morning  at  six 

*  I  must  again  start,  to  get  back  to  Boston  once  more.    But  after 

*  to-morrow  night  I  have  only  the  farewells,  thank  God  !    Even  as 

*  it  is,  however,  I  have  had  to  write  to  Dolby  (who  is  in  New 
York)  to  see  my  doctor  there,  and  ask  him  to  send  me  some 

'  composing  medicine  that  I  can  take  at  night,  inasmuch  as  with- 


*  Here  was  his  account  of  his  mode 
of  living  for  his  last  ten  weeks  in 
America.  '  I  cannot  eat  (to  anything 
'  like  the  necessary  extent)  and  have 

*  established  this  system.    At  7  in  the 

*  morning,  in  bed,  a  tumbler  of  new 
«  cream  and  two  tablespoonfuls  of  rum. 
'At  12,  a  sherry  cobbler  and  a  biscuit. 

*  At  3  (dinner  time)  a  pint  of  cham' 


*  pagne.    At  five  minutes  to  8,  an  egg 

*  beaten  up  with  a  glass  of  sherry. 

*  Between  the  parts,  the  strongest  beef 
'  tea  that  can  be  made,  drunk  hot. 

*  At  a  quarter  past  10,  soup,  and  any 

*  little  thing  to  drink  that  I  can  fancy. 
'  I  do  not  eat  more  than  half  a  pound 

*  of  solid  food  in  the  whole  four-and« 

*  twenty  hours,  if  so  much,' 


432 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.       [Book  X. 


America:  *  out  slecp  I  Cannot  get  through.  However  sympathetic  and 
 *  devoted  the  people  are  about  one,  they  can  not  be  got  to  com- 

Sleepless- 

ness.         '  prehend,  seeing  me  able  to  do  the  two  hours  when  the  time 

*  comes  round,  that  it  may  also  involve  much  misery.*  To  myself 
on  the  30th  he  wrote  from  the  same  place,  making  like  confession. 
No  comment  could  deepen  the  sadness  of  the  story  of  suffering, 
revealed  in  his  own  simple  language.    *  I  write  in  a  town  three 

*  parts  of  which  were  burnt  down  in  a  tremendous  fire  three  years 

*  ago.    The  people  lived  in  tents  while  their  city  was  rebuilding. 

*  The  charred  trunks  of  the  trees  with  which  the  streets  of  the  old 
'  city  were  planted,  yet  stand  here  and  there  in  the  new  thorough- 
'  fares  like  black  spectres.  The  rebuilding  is  still  in  progress 
'  everywhere.  Yet  such  is  the  astonishing  energy  of  the  people 
'  that  the  large  hall  in  which  I  am  to  read  to-night  (its  predecessor 

*  was  burnt)  would  compare  very  favourably  with  the  Free  Trade 
•  iled% '    *         at  Manchester  !  ...  I  am  nearly  used  up.    Climate,  dis- 

*  tance,  catarrh,  travelling,  and  hard  work,  have  begun  (I  may  say 
'  so,  now  they  are  nearly  all  over)  to  tell  heavily  upon  me. 

*  Sleeplessness  besets  me ;  and  if  I  had  engaged  to  go  on  into 

*  May,  I  think  I  must  have  broken  down.    It  was  well  that  I  cut 

*  off  the  Far  West  and  Canada  when  I  did.    There  would  else 

*  have  been  a  sad  complication.    It  is  impossible  to  make  the 

*  people  about  one  understand,  however  zealous  and  devoted  (it 

*  is  impossible  even  to  make  Dolby  understand  until  the  pinch 

*  comes),  that  the  power  of  coming  up  to  the  mark  every  night, 
'  with  spirits  and  spirit,  may  coexist  with  the  nearest  approach  to 
'  sinking  under  it.    When  I  got  back  to  Boston  on  Thursday, 

*  after  a  very  hard  three  weeks,  I  saw  that  Fields  was  very  grave 
'  about  my  going  on  to  New  Bedford  (55  miles)  next  day,  and 
'then  coming  on  here  (180  miles)  next  d.2.y.  But  the  stress  is 
'  over,  and  so  I  can  afford  to  look  back  upon  it,  and  think  about 
'  it,  and  write  about  it*  On  the  31st  he  closed  his  letter  at 
Boston,  and  he  was  at  home  when  I  heard  of  him  again.    *  The 

*  latest  intelligence,  my  dear  old  fellow,  is,  that  I  have  arrived  here 
Sv  over   *  safely,  and  that  I  am  certainly  better.    I  consider  my  work 

*  virtually  over,  now.  My  impression  is,  that  the  political  crisis 
'  will  damage  the  farewells  by  about  one  half.    I  cannot  yet  speak 


§11.]        America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


433 


*  by  the  card;  but  my  predictions  here,  as  to  our  proceedings,  America: 

1868. 

*  have  thus  far  been  invariably  right    We  took  last  night  at  — 

*  Portland,  ;^36o  English  ;  where  a  costly  Italian  troupe,  using 

*  the  same  hall  to-night,  had  not  booked  !  It  is  the  same 
'  all  over  the  country,  and  the  worst  is  not  seen  yet.  Everything 

*  is  becoming  absorbed  in  the  Presidential  impeachment,  helped 

*  by  the  next  Presidential  election.    Connecticut  is  particularly 

*  excited.    The  night  after  I  read  at  Hartford  this  last  week, 

*  there  were  two  political  meetings  in  the  town ;  meetings  of  two 

*  parties ;  and  the  hotel  was  full  of  speakers  coming  in  from 

*  outlying  places.    So  at  Newhaven  :  the  moment  I  had  finished, 

*  carpenters  came  in  to  prepare  for  next  night's  politics.    So  at 

*  Buffalo.    So  everywhere  very  soon.' 

In  the  same  tone  he  wrote  his  last  letter  to  his  sister-in-law  Boston 
from  Boston.    '  My  notion  of  the  farewells  is  pretty  certain  now 

*  to  turn  out  right.  We  had  ;£"3oo  English  here  last  night.  To- 
'  day  is  a  Fast  Day,  and  to-night  we  shall  probably  take  much 

less.    Then  it  is  likely  that  we  shall  pull  up  again,  and  strike  a 

*  good  reasonable  average ;  but  it  is  not  at  all  probable  that  we 

*  shall  do  anything  enormous.    Every  pulpit  in  Massachusetts 

*  will  resound  with  violent  poHtics  to-day  and  to-night.'  That  was 
on  the  second  of  April,  and  a  postscript  was  added.  *  Friday 
'  afternoon  the  3rd.    Catarrh  worse  than  ever !  and  we  don't 

*  know  (at  four  o'clock)  whether  I  can  read  to-night  or  must  stop. 

*  Otherwise,  all  well.' 

Dickens's  last  letter  from  America  was  written  to  his  daughter  Last 
Mary  from  Boston  on  the  9th  of  April,  the  day  before  his  sixth  itltl"*^'* 
and  last  farewell  night.    *  I  not  only  read  last  Friday  when  I  was 
'  doubtful  of  being  able  to  do  so,  but  read  as  I  never  did  before, 
'  and  astonished  the  audience  quite  as  much  as  myself.  You 

*  never  saw  or  heard  such  a  scene  of  excitement.  Longfellow 

*  and  all  the  Cambridge  men  have  urged  me  to  give  in.    I  have 

*  been  very  near  doing  so,  but  feel  stronger  to-day.    I  cannot  tell 

*  whether  the  catarrh  may  have  done  me  any  lasting  injury  in  the 

*  lungs  or  other  breathing  organs,  until  I  shall  have  rested  and  got 

*  home.    I  hope  and  believe  not.    Consider  the  weather !  There 

*  have  been  two  snow  storms  since  I  wrote  last,  and  to-day  the 

»rOL.  II.  F  F 


434 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,       [Book  X. 


America  :  *  to\vn  is  blotted  out  in  a  ceaseless  whirl  of  snow  and  wind. 

1868. 

—          '  Dolby  is  as  tender  as  a  woman,  and  as  watchful  as  a  doctor.  He 

*  never  leaves  me  during  the  reading,  now,  but  sits  at  the  side  of 

*  the  platform,  and  keeps  his  eye  upon  me  all  the  time.  Ditto 

*  George  the  gasman,  steadiest  and  most  reliable  man  I  ever 

*  employed.    I  have  Dombey  to  do  to-night,  and  must  go  through 

*  it  carefully ;  so  here  ends  my  report.    The  personal  affection  of 

*  the  people  in  this  place  is  charming  to  the  last.  Did  I  tell  you 
'  that  the  New  York  Press  are  going  to  give  me  a  public  dinner 

*  on  Saturday  the  i8th  ? ' 

New  York  111  Ncw  York,  where  there  were  five  farewell  nights,  three 
farewells,  t^QUsand  two  hundred  and  ninety-eight  dollars  were  the  receipts 
of  the  last,  on  the  20th  of  April ;  those  of  the  last  at  Boston,  on 
the  8th,  having  been  three  thousand  four  hundred  and  fifty-six 
dollars.  But,  on  earlier  nights  in  the  same  cities  respectively, 
these  sums  also  had  been  reached  ;  and  indeed,  making  allowance 
for  an  exceptional  night  here  and  there,  the  receipts  varied  so 
wonderfully  little,  that  a  mention  of  the  highest  average  returns 
from  other  places  will  give  no  exaggerated  impression  of  the 
Receipts  Ordinary  receipts  throughout.  Excluding  fractions  of  dollars, 
the  lowest  were  New  Bedford  ($1640),  Rochester  ($1906), 
Springfield  ($1970),  and  Providence  ($2140).  Albany  and  Wor- 
cester averaged  something  less  than  $2400 ;  while  Hartford, 
Buffalo,  Baltimore,  Syracuse,  Newhaven,  and  Portland  rose  to 
$2600.  Washington's  last  night  was  $2610,  no  night  there 
having  less  than  $2500.  Philadelphia  exceeded  Washington  by 
$300,  and  Brooklyn  went  ahead  of  Philadelphia  by  $200.  The 
amount  taken  at  the  four  Brooklyn  readings  was  11,128  dollars. 
The  New  York  public  dinner  was  given  at  Delmonico's,  the 
Public  hosts  were  more  than  two  hundred,  and  the  chair  was  taken  by 
Mr.  Horace  Greely.   Dickens  attended  with  great  difficulty,*  and 

*  Here  is  the  newspaper  account :  *  announced  Mr.  Dickens's  intention 

*  At  about  five  o'clock  on  Saturday  *  to  attend  the  dinner  at  all  hazards. 

*  the  hosts  began  to  assemble,  but  at  *  At  a  little  after  six,  having  been  as- 

*  5.30  the  news  was  received  that  the  '  sisted  up  the  stairs,  he  was  joined  by 

*  expected  guest  had  succumbed  to  a  '  Mr.  Greeley,  and  the  hosts  forming 

*  painful  affection  of  the  foot.    In  a  'in  two  lines  silently  permitted  the 

*  short  time,  however,  another  bulletin  '  distinguished    gentlemen    to  pass 


dinner. 


§11.] 


America:  January  to  April,  1868. 


435 


spoke  7n  pain.  But  he  used  the  occasion  to  bear  his  testimony  to  Ame^ca  : 

the  changes  of  twenty-five  years ;  the  rise  of  vast  new  cities  ;   

growth  in  the  graces  and  amenities  of  life ;  much  improvement  in 
the  press,  essential  to  every  other  advance ;  and  changes  in  himselt 
leading  to  opinions  more  deliberately  formed.  He  promised  his 
kindly  entertainers  that  no  copy  of  his  Notes,  or  his  Chuzzlewif, 
should  in  future  be  issued  by  him  without  accompanying  mention 
of  the  changes  to  which  he  had  referred  that  night ;  of  the  polite- 
ness, delicacy,  sweet  temper,  hospitality,  and  consideration  in  all 
ways  for  which  he  had  to  thank  them ;  and  of  his  gratitude  for  the 
respect  shown,  during  all  his  visit,  to  the  privacy  enforced  upon 
him  by  the  nature  of  his  work  and  the  condition  of  his  health. 

He  had  to  leave  the  room  before  the  proceedings  were  over. 
On  the  following  Monday  he  read  to  his  last  American  audience, 
telling  them  at  the  close  that  he  hoped  often  to  recall  them, 
equally  by  his  winter  fire  and  in  the  green  summer  weather,  and  Adieu, 
never  as  a  mere  public  audience  but  as  a  host  of  personal  friends. 
He  sailed  two  days  later  in  the  'Russia,'  and  reached  England  in 
the  first  week  of  May  1868. 

*  through.    Mr.  Dickens  limped  per-     *  Mr.  Greeley.    He  evidently  suffered 

*  ceptibly  ;  his  right  foot  was  swathed,     *  great  pain.' 

*  and  he  leaned  heavily  on  the  arm  of 


r  p  a 


BOOK  ELEVENTH. 


SUMMING  UP. 
1868—1870.   ^T.  56—58. 

I.  Last  Readings. 

II.  Last  Book. 

III.  Personal  Characteristics. 


1. 


LAST  READINGS. 
1868— 1870. 

Favourable  weather  helped  Dickens  pleasantly  home.    He  London  t 
had  profited  greatly  by  the  sea  voyage,  perhaps  greatly  more  by  — - — '—- 
its  repose;  and  on  the  25th  of  May  he  described  himself  to  his 
Boston  friends  as  brown  beyond  belief,  and  causing  the  greatest 
disappointment  in  all  quarters  by  looking  so  well.    *  My  doctor 

*  was  quite  broken  down  in  spirits  on  seeing  me  for  the  first  time 

*  last  Saturday.    Goo^  lord!  seven  years  younger  I  said  the  doctor, 

*  recoiHng.'    That  he  gave  all  the  credit  to  *  those  fine  days  at 

*  sea,'  and  none  to  the  rest  from  such  labours  as  he  had  passed 
through,  the  close  of  the  letter  too  sadly  showed.     *We  are 

*  already  settling — think  of  this  !  the  details  of  my  farewell  course 

*  of  readings.' 

Even  on  his  way  out  to  America  that  enterprise  was  in  hand.  Project 

for  last 

From  Halifax  he  had  written  to  me.    '  I  told  the  Chappells  that  readings. 

*  when  I  got  back  to  England,  I  would  have  a  series  of  farewell 

*  readings  in  town  and  country ;  and  then  read  No  More.  They 

*  at  once  offer  in  writing  to  pay  all  expenses  whatever,  to  pay  the 
'  ten  per  cent,  for  management,  and  to  pay  me,  for  a  series  of  75, 

*  six  thousand  pounds.'  The  terms  were  raised  and  settled  before 
the  first  Boston  readings  closed.  The  number  was  to  be  a 
hundred :  and  the  payment,  over  and  above  expenses  and  per 
centage,  eight  thousand  pounds.  Such  a  temptation  undoubtedly 
was  great ;  and  though  it  was  a  fatal  mistake  which  Dickens  com- 
mitted in  yielding  to  it,  it  was  not  an  ignoble  one.  He  did  it 
under  no  excitement  from  the  American  gains,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing  when  he  pledged  himself  to  the  enterprise.  No  man 
could  care  essentially  less  for  mere  money  than  he  did.  But  the 
necessary  provision  for  many  sons  was  a  constant  anxiety ;  he  was  Yielding 
proud  of  what  the  Readings  had  done  to  abridge  this  care  ;  and  tatS^ 
the  very  strain  of  them  under  which  it  seems  that  his  health  haa 


440 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  XI. 


London:  first  given.  Way,  and  which  he  always  steadily  refused  to  connect 
1868. 

 especially  with  them,  had  also  broken  the  old  confidence  of  being 

at  all  times  available  for  his  higher  pursuit  What  affected  his 
health  only  he  would  not  regard  as  part  of  the  question  either  way. 
That  was  to  be  borne  as  the  lot  more  or  less  of  all  men ;  and  the 
more  thorough  he  could  make  his  feeling  of  independence,  and 
of  ability  to  rest,  by  what  was  now  in  hand,  the  better  his  final 
chances  of  a  perfect  recovery  would  be.  That  was  the  spirit  in 
which  he  entered  on  this  last  engagement.  It  was  an  opportunity 
offered  for  making  a  particular  work  really  complete  before  he 
should  abandon  it  for  ever.  Something  of  it  will  not  be  indis- 
cernible even  in  the  summary  of  his  past  acquisitions,  which  with 
a  pardonable  exultation  he  now  sent  me. 

*  We  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  our  American  accounts 

*  squared  to  the  point  of  ascertaining  what  Dolby's  commission 

*  amounted  to  in  English  money.    After  all,  we  were  obliged  to 

*  call  in  the  aid  of  a  money-changer,  to  determine  what  he  should 

*  pay  as  his  share  of  the  average  loss  of  conversion  into  gold. 

*  With  this  deduction  made,  I  think  his  commission  (I  have  not 
'  the  figures  at  hand)  was  ;£"2,888  j  Ticknor  and  Fields  had  a 

*  commission  of  1,000,  besides  5  per  cent,  on  all  Boston 
pilfses^and  '  Tcceipts.  The  expcnscs  in  America  to  the  day  of  our  sailing 
Readings.     *  ^^^^  z'^^>^^^  dollars; — roughly  39,000  dollars,  or     13,000.  The 

*  preliminary  expenses  were  ;£6i4.    The  average  price  of  gold 

*  was  nearly  40  per  cent,  and  yet  my  profit  was  within  a  hundred 

*  or  so  of     20,000.     Supposing  me  to  have  got  through  the 

*  present  engagement  in  good  health,  I  shall  have  made  by  the 

*  Readings,  in  two  years,  33,000 :  that  is  to  say :  13,000 
'  received  from  the  Chappells,  and    2  0,000  from  America.  What 

*  I  had  made  by  them  before,  I  could  only  ascertain  by  a  long 

*  examination  of  Coutts's  books.   I  should  say,  certainly  not  less 

*  than     10,000  :  for  I  remember  that  I  made  half  that  money  in 

*  the  first  town  and  country  campaign  with  poor  Arthur  Smith. 

*  These  figures  are  of  course  between  ourselves;  but  don't  you 

*  think  them  rather  remarkable  ?    The  Chappell  bargain  began 

*  with;£'5o  a  night  and  everything  paid  ;  then  became^  60  ;  and 

*  now  rises  tO;^8o.' 


Last  Readings. 


441 


The  last  readings  were  appointed  to  begin  with  October ;  and   London  : 

186& 

at  the  request  of  an  old  friend,  Chauncy  Hare  Townshend,  who   

died  during  his  absence  in  the  States,  he  had  accepted  the  trust, 
which  occupied  him  some  part  of  the  summer,  of  examining  and 
selecting  for  publication  a  bequest  of  some  papers  on  matters  of 
religious  belief,  which  were  issued  in  a  small  volume  the  following 
year.  There  came  also  in  June  a  visit  from  Longfellow  and  his 
daughters,  with  later  summer  visits  from  the  Eliot  Nortons  ;  and 
at  the  arrival  of  friends  whom  he  loved  and  honoured  as  he  did 
these,  from  the  great  country  to  which  he  owed  so  much,  infinite 
were  the  rejoicings  of  Gadshill.  Nothing  could  quench  his  old 
spirit  in  this  way.  But,  in  the  intervals  of  my  official  work,  I  saw 
him  frequently  that  summer,  and  never  without  the  impression 
that  America  had  told  heavily  upon  him.  There  was  manifest 
abatement  of  his  natural  force,  the  elasticity  of  bearinsr  was  im-  Noticeable 

,  ,  changes la 

paired,  and  the  wonderful  brightness  of  eye  was  dimmed  at  times  i>ickens. 
One  day,  too,  as  he  walked  from  his  office  with  Miss  Hogarth  to 
dine  at  our  house,  he  could  read  only  the  halves  of  the  letters 
over  the  shop  doors  that  were  on  his  right  as  he  looked.  He 
attributed  it  to  medicine.  It  was  an  additional  unfavourable 
symptom  that  his  right  foot  had  become  affected  as  well  as  the 
left,  though  not  to  anything  like  the  same  extent,  during  the 
journey  from  the  Canada  frontier  to  Boston.  But  all  this  dis- 
appeared upon  any  special  cause  for  exertion  ;  and  he  was  never 
unprepared  to  lavish  freely  for  others  the  reserved  strength  that 
should  have  been  kept  for  himself.  This  indeed  was  the  great 
danger,  for  it  dulled  the  apprehension  of  us  all  to  the  fact  that 
absolute  and  pressing  danger  did  positively  exist. 

He  had  scarcely  begun  these  last  readings  than  he  was  beset  by 
a  misgiving,  that,  for  a  success  large  enough  to  repay  Messrs. 
Chappell's  liberality,  the  enterprise  would  require  a  new  excite- 
ment to  carry  him  over  the  old  ground  ;  and  it  was  while  engaged 
in  Manchester  and  Liverpool  at  the  outset  of  October  that  this 
announcement  came.     '  I  have  made  a  short  reading  of  the 

*  murder  in  Oliver  Twist.  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind,  however, 
'  whether  to  do  it  or  not.    I  have  no  doubt  that  I  could  perfectly 

*  petrify  an  audience  by  carrying  out  the  notion  I  have  of  the 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  XI. 


*  way  of  rendering  it.    But  whether  the  impression  would  not  be 

*  so  horrible  as  to  keep  them  away  another  time,  is  what  I  cannot 
'  satisfy  myself  upon.    What  do  you  think  ?    It  is  in  three  short 

parts  :  i,  Where  Fagin  sets  Noah  Claypole  on  to  watch  Nancy* 
'  2,  The  scene  on  London  Bridge.  3,  Where  Fagin  rouses  Clay- 
'  pole  from  his  sleep,  to  tell  his  perverted  story  to  Sikes :  and  the 

*  Murder,  and  the  Murderer's  sense  of  being  haunted.    I  have 

*  adapted  and  cut  about  the  text  with  great  care,  and  it  is  very 

*  powerful.    I  have  to-day  referred  the  book  and  the  question  to 

*  the  Chappells  as  so  largely  interested.'  I  had  a  strong  dislike  to 
this  proposal,  less  perhaps  on  the  ground  which  ought  to  have 
been  taken  of  the  physical  exertion  it  would  involve,  than  because 
such  a  subject  seemed  to  be  altogether  out  of  the  province  of 
reading ;  and  it  was  resolved,  that,  before  doing  it,  trial  should  be 
made  to  a  limited  private  audience  in  St  James's  Hall.  The  note 
announcing  this,  from  Liverpool  on  the  25  th  of  October,  is  for 
other  reasons  worth  printing.    *  I  give  you  earliest  notice  that  the 

*  Chappells  suggest  to  me  the  i8th  of  November'  (the  14th  was 
chosen)  *  for  trial  of  the  Oliver  Twist  murder,  when  everything  in 

*  use  for  the  previous  da/s  reading  can  be  made  available.  I 
'  hope  this  may  suit  you  ?  We  have  been  doing  well  here ;  and 
'  how  it  was  arranged,  nobody  knows,  but  we  had  ^410  at 

*  St.  James's  Hall  last  Tuesday,  having  advanced  from  our 
'  previous  ;£^36o.  The  expenses  are  such,  however,  on  the 
'  princely  scale  of  the  Chappells,  that  we  never  begin  at  a 

*  smaller,  often  at  a  larger,  cost  than  ;^i8o.  .  .  I  have  not  been 
'  well,  and  have  been  heavily  tired.  However,  I  have  little  to 
^  complain  of — nothing,  nothing ;  though,  hke  Mariana,  I  am 

*  aweary.   But,  think  of  this.   If  all  go  well  and  (like  Mr.  Dennis) 

*  I  "work  off"  this  series  triumphantly,  I  shall  have  made  of  these 

*  readings;^ 28,000  in  a  year  and  a  half.'  This  did  not  better 
reconcile  me  to  what  had  been  too  clearly  forced  upon  him  by  the 
supposed  necessity  of  some  new  excitement  to  ensure  a  triumph- 
ant result ;  and  even  the  private  rehearsal  only  led  to  a  painful 
correspondence  between  us,  of  which  a  few  words  are  all  that  need 
now  be  preserved.    *  We  might  have  agreed,'  he  wrote,  *  to  differ 

*  about  ii  very  well,  because  we  only  wanted  to  find  out  the  truth 


Last  Readings. 


443 


*  if  we  could,  and  because  it  was  quite  understood  that  I  wanted  London: 

1868. 

*  to  leave  behind  me  the  recollection  of  something  very  passionate  

*  and  dramatic,  done  with  simple  means,  if  the  art  would  jus- 

*  tify  the  theme/  Apart  from  mere  personal  considerations,  the 
whole  question  lay  in  these  last  words.  It  was  impossible  for 
me  to  admit  that  the  effect  to  be  produced  was  legitimate,  or 
such  as  it  was  desirable  to  associate  with  the  recollection  of  his 
readings. 

Mention  should  not  be  omitted  of  two  sorrows  which  affected  Parting 

from 

him  at  this  time.    At  the  close  of  the  month  before  the  readings  youngest 

°  son. 

began,  his  youngest  son  went  forth  from  home  to  join  an  elder 
brother  in  Australia.  '  These  partings  are  hard  hard  things ' 
(26th  of  September),  '  but  they  are  the  lot  of  us  all,  and  might 

*  have  to  be  done  without  means  or  influence,  and  then  would  be 

*  far  harder.    God  bless  him  ! '    Hardly  a  month  later,  the  last  of 

his  surviving  brothers,  Frederick,  the  next  to  himself,  died  at  Death  of 

his  brother 

Darlington.    *  He  had  been  tended  '  (24th  of  October),  *  with  the  Frederick. 

*  greatest  care  and  affection  by  some  local  friends.     It  was  a 

*  wasted  life,  but  God  forbid  that  one  should  be  hard  upon  it,  or 

*  upon  anything  in  this  world  that  is  not  deliberately  and  coldly 

*  wrong.' 

Before  October  closed  the  renewal  of  his  labour  had  begun  to 
tell  upon  him.  He  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  on  the  29th  of 
sickness  and  sleepless  nights,  and  of  its  having  become  necessary, 
when  he  had  to  read,  that  he  should  lie  on  the  sofa  all  day.  After 
arrival  at  Edinburgh  in  December,  he  had  been  making  a  calcula- 
tion that  the  railway  travelling  over  such  a  distance  involved 
something  more  than  thirty  thousand  shocks  to  the  nerves ;  but 
he  went  on  to  Christmas,  alternating  these  far-off  places  with 
nights  regularly  intervening  in  London,  without  much  more  com- 
plaint than  of  an  inability  to  sleep.  Trade  reverses  at  Glasgow  Effect  ot 
had  checked  the  success  there,*  but  Edinburgh  made  compensa-  work^and 

travel. 

*  '  I  think  I  shall  be  pretty  correct  *  shady  and  the  charges  very  great,  it 

*  in  both  places  as  to  the  run  being  on  •will  be  the  most  we  can  do,  I  fancy, 

*  the  Final  readings.    We  had  an  im-  '  on  these  first  Scotch  readings,  to 

*  mense  house  here'  (Edinburgh,  12th  '  bring  the  Chappells  safely  home  (as 
of  December)  'last  night,  and  a  very  *  to  them)  without  loss.' 

*  large  tumaway.    But  Glasgow  being 


444 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI- 


London ; 
i8C8. 


Sikes  and 

Nancy 

reading. 


A  reading 
stopped  by 
illness. 


tion.  *  The  affectionate  regard  of  the  people  exceeds  all  bounds 
^  and  is  shown  in  every  way.    The  audiences  do  everything  but 

*  embrace  me,  and  take  as  much  pains  with  the  readings  as  I  do 

*  .  .  .  The  keeper  of  the  Edinburgh  hall,  a  fine  old  soldier,  pre- 

*  sented  me  on  Friday  night  with  the  most  superb  red  camellia  for 

*  my  button-hole  that  ever  was  seen.  Nobody  can  imagine  how 
'  he  came  by  it,  as  the  florists  had  had  a  considerable  demand 

*  for  that  colour,  from  ladies  in  the  stalls,  and  could  get  no  such 

*  thing.' 

The  second  portion  of  the  enterprise  opened  with  the  New 
Year ;  and  the  Sikes  and  Nancy  scenes,  everywhere  his  prominent 
subject,  exacted  the  most  terrible  physical  exertion  from  him.  In 
January  he  was  at  Clifton,  where  he  had  given,  he  told  his  sister- 
in-law,  *  by  far  the  best  Murder  yet  done  ; '  while  at  the  same  date 
he  wrote  to  his  daughter  :  *  At  Clifton  on  Monday  night  we  had 

*  a  contagion  of  fainting  ;  and  yet  the  place  was  not  hot.  I 
'  should  think  we  had  from  a  dozen  to  twenty  ladies  taken  out 
'  stiff  and  rigid,  at  various  times  I  It  became  quite  ridiculous.' 
He  was  afterwards  at  Cheltenham.    '  Macready  is  of  opinion  that 

*  the  Murder  is  two  Macbeths.    He  declares  that  he  heard  every 

*  word  of  the  reading,  but  I  doubt  it.  Alas  !  he  is  sadly  infirm.* 
On  the  27th  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  from  Torquay  that  the  place 
into  which  they  had  put  him  to  read,  and  where  a  pantomime  had 
been  played  the  night  before,  was  something  between  a  Methodist 
chapel,  a  theatre,  a  circus,  a  riding-school,  and  a  cow-house. 
That  day  he  wrote  to  me  from  Bath  :  *  Landor's  ghost  goes  along 

*  the  silent  streets  here  before  me  .  .  .  The  place  looks  to  me  like 

*  a  cemetery  which  the  Dead  have  succeeded  in  rising  and  taking. 

*  Having  built  streets  of  their  old  gravestones,  they  wander  about 

*  scantly  trying  to  "look  alive."    A  dead  failure.' 

In  the  second  week  of  February  he  was  in  London,  under 
engagement  to  return  to  Scotland  (which  he  had  just  left)  after  the 
usual  weekly  reading  at  St.  James's  Hall,  when  there  was  a  sudden 
interruption.  *  My  foot  has  turned  lame  again ! '  was  his 
announcement  to  me  on  the  15th,  followed  next  day  by  this 
letter.  *  Henry  Thompson  will  not  let  me  read  to-night,  and  will 
'  not  let  me  go  to  Scotland  to-morrow.    Tremendous  house  here, 


Last  Readings. 


445 


*  and  also  in  Edinburgh.    Here  is  the  certificate  he  drew  up  for  London  ; 

*  himself  and  Beard  to  sign.     "  We  the  undersigned  hereby  

*  "  certify  that  Mr.  C.  D.  is  suffering  from  inflammation  of  the 

*  "  foot  (caused  by  over-exertion),  and  that  we  have  forbidden  his 

*  "  appearance  on  the  platform  this  evening,  as  he  must  keep  his 

*  room  for  a  day  or  two."    I  have  sent  up  to  the  Great  Western 

*  Hotel  for  apartments,  and,  if  I  can  get  them,  shall  move  there 

*  this  evening.     Heaven   knows  what   engagements  this  may 

*  involve  in  April !    It  throws  us  all  back,  and  will  cost  me  some 

*  five  hundred  pounds.' 

A  few  days'  rest  again  brought  so  much  relief,  that,  against  the 
urgent  entreaties  of  members  of  his  family  as  well  as  other 
friends,  he  was  in  the  railway  carriage  bound  for  Edinburgh  on  the  Again 
morning  of  the  20th  of  February,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Chappell 
himself  *  I  came  down  lazily  on  a  sofa,'  he  wrote  to  me  from 
Edinburgh  next  day,  '  hardly  changing  my  position  the  whole 

*  way.    The  railway  authorities  had  done  all  sorts  of  things,  and 

*  I  was  more  comfortable  than  on  the  sofa  at  the  hotel.  The 

*  foot  gave  me  no  uneasiness,  and  has  been  quiet  and  steady  all 

*  night.'  *  He  was  nevertheless  under  the  necessity,  two  days 
later,  of  consulting  Mr.  Syme ;  and  he  told  his  daughter  that  this 
great  authority  had  warned  him  against  over-fatigue  in  the 
readings,  and  given  him  some  slight  remedies,  but  otherwise 
reported  him  in  *  just  perfectly  splendid  condition.'  With  care 
he   thought  the   pain  might  be   got  rid  of     *  What  made 

*  Thompson  think  it  was  gout  ?  he  said  often,  and  seemed  to 

*  The  close  of  the  letter  has  an  *  ing  his  health  ;  and  immediately, 

amusing  picture  which  I  may  be  ex-  *  and   with   overflowing   amiability, ' 

cused  for  printing  in  a  note.    *  The  *  began  returning  thanks.    The  spec- 

'  only  news  that  will  interest  you  is  *  tacle  was  then   presented  to  the 

'  that  the  good-natured  Reverdy  John-  'astonished  company,  of  the  Ame- 

*  son,  being  at  an  Art  Dinner  in  Glas-  *  rican  Eagle  being  restrained  by  the 

*  gow  the   other  night,  and  falling  *  coat  tails   from  swooping  at  the 

*  asleep  over  the  post-prandial  speeches  'moon,  while  the  smaller  birds  en- 
'  (only  too  naturally),  woke  suddenly  *  deavoured  to  explain  to  it  how  the 

*  on  hearing  the  name  of  "  Johnson  "  *  case  stood,  and  the  cock  robin  in  pos- 

*  in  a  list  of  Scotch  painters  which  *  session  of  the  chairman's  eye  twit- 

*  one  of  the  orators  was  enumerating;  *  tered  away  as  hard  as  he  could  split. 

*  at  once  plunged  up,  under  the  im-  *  I  am  told  that  it  was  wonderfully 

*  pression  that  somebody  was  drink-  '  droll,' 


446 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


Edin- 
burgh 
1869. 


Mr.  Svm? 
as  to  the 
lameness. 


Emerson 
Tennent  s 
funeral. 


At  Black- 
pool. 


*  take  that  opinion  extremely  ill'  Again  before  leaving  Scotland 
he  saw  Mr.  Syme,  and  wrote  to  me  on  the  second  of  March 
of  the  indignation  with  which  he  again  treated  the  gout  diagnosis^ 
declaring  the  disorder  to  be  an  affection  of  the  delicate  nerves 
and  muscles  originating  in  cold.    *  I  told  him  that  it  had  shewn 

*  itself  in  America  in  the  other  foot  as  well.    "  Now  I'll  just 

*  "  swear,"  said  he,  that  beyond  the  fatigue  of  the  readings 
'  "  you'd  been  tramping  in  the  snow  within  two  or  three  days." 
'  I  certainly  had.    "Well,"  said  he  triumphantly,  "and  how  did 

*  "it  first  begin?  In  the  snow.  Gout?  Bah! — Thompson 
'  "  knew  no  other  name  for  it,  and  just  called  it  gout.  Bah  !  " ' 
Yet  the  famous  pupil,  Sir  Henry  Thompson,  went  certainly  nearer 
the  mark  than  the  distinguished  master,  Mr.  Syme,  in  giving  to 
this  distressing  trouble  a  more  than  local  character. 

The  whole  of  that  March  month  he  went  on  with  the  scenes 
from  Oliver  Twist.  *  The  foot  goes  famously,*  he  wrote  to  his 
daughter.  *  I  feel  the  fatigue  in  it  (four  Murders  in  one  week  *) 
'  but  not  overmuch.  It  merely  aches  at  night ;  and  so  does  the 
'  other,  sympathetically  I  suppose.'  At  Hull  on  the  8th  he  heard 
of  the  death  of  the  old  and  dear  friend,  Emerson  Tennent,  to 
whom  he  had  inscribed  his  last  book ;  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
1 2th  I  met  him  at  the  funeral.  He  had  read  the  Oliver  Twist 
scenes  the  night  before  at  York ;  had  just  been  able  to  get  to  the 
express  train,  after  shortening  the  pauses  in  the  reading,  by  a 
violent  rush  when  it  was  over;  and  had  travelled  through  the 
night.  He  appeared  to  me  '  dazed '  and  worn.  No  man  could 
well  look  more  so  than  he  did,  that  sorrowful  morning. 

The  end  was  near.  A  public  dinner,  which  will  have  mention 
on  a  later  page,  had  been  given  him  in  Liverpool  on  the  loth  of 
April,  with  Lord  Dufferin  in  the  chair,  and  a  reading  was  due 
from  him  in  Preston  on  the  22nd  of  that  month.  But  on  Sunday 
the  1 8th  we  had  ill  report  of  him  from  Chester,  and  on  the  21st 
he  wrote  from  Blackpool  to  his  sister-in-law.    *  I  have  come  to 

*  I  take  from  the  letter  a  mention  *  Murder.    Every  vestige  of  colour  left 

of  the  effect  on  a  friend.     *  The  night  *  his  face  when  I  came  off,  and  he  sat 

*  before  last,  unable  to  get  in,  B.  had  '  staring  over  a  glass  of  champagne  in 

*  a  seat  behind  the  screen,  and  M^as  '  the  wildest  vi'ay. ' 

*  nearly  frightened  off   it,    by  the 


Last  Readings. 


447 


*  this  Sea-Beach  Hotel  (charming)  for  a  day's  rest.    I  am  much  Preston: 

1869. 

*  better  than  I  was  on  Sunday ;  but  shall  want  careful  looking  to,  - 

*  to  get  through  the  readings.    My  weakness  and  deadness  are 

*  all  on  the  left  side ;  and  if  I  don't  look  at  anything  I  try  to 

*  touch  with  my  left  hand,  I  don't  know  where  it  is.    I  am  in  Alarming 

*  (secret)  consultation  with  Frank  Beard,  who  says  that  I  have  given  ^^'"p'"'"^" 

*  him  indisputable  evidences  of  overwork  which  he  could  wish  to 

*  treat  immediately ;  and  so  I  have  telegraphed  for  him.    I  have 

*  had  a  delicious  walk  by  the  sea  to-day,  and  I  sleep  soundly,  and 

*  have  picked  up  amazingly  in  appetite.    My  foot  is  greatly  better 

*  too,  and  I  wear  my  own  boot'  Next  day  was  appointed  for  the 
reading  at  Preston ;  and  from  that  place  he  wrote  to  me,  while 
waiting  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Beard.    *  Don't  say  anything  about  it, 

*  but  the  tremendously  severe  nature  of  this  work  is  a  little 

*  shaking  me.    At  Chester  last  Sunday  I  found  myself  extremely 

*  giddy,  and  extremely  uncertain  of  my  sense  of  touch,  both  in 

*  the  left  leg  and  the  left  hand  and  arms.  I  had  been  taking 
'  some  slight  medicine  of  Beard's ;  and  immediately  wrote  to  him 

*  describing  exactly  what  I  felt,  and  asking  him  whether  those 
'  feelings  could  be  referable  to  the  medicine  ?    He  promptly 

*  replied :  "  There  can  be  no  mistaking  them  from  your  exact 
'  "  account  The  medicine  cannot  possibly  have  caused  them. 
'  "  I  recognise  indisputable  symptoms  of  overwork,  and  I  wish  to 

*  "  take  you  in  hand  without  any  loss  of  time."    They  have 

'  greatly  modified  since,  but  he  is  coming  down  here  this  after-  St>il 

°  °  hoping  to 

*  noon.     To-morrow  night  at  Warrington  I  shall  have  but  25  g° 

*  more  nights  to  work  through.    If  he  can  coach  me  up  for  them, 

*  I  do  not  doubt  that  I  shall  get  all  right  again — as  I  did  when  I 

*  became  free  in  America.    The  foot  has  given  me  very  little  310, 

*  trouble.    Yet  it  is  remarkable  that  it  is  the  left  foot  too  ;  and  that       §  3. 

*  I  told  Henry  Thompson  (before  I  saw  his  old  master  Syme)  that 
'  I  had  an  inward  conviction  that  whatever  it  was,  it  was  not  gout 
'  I  also  told  Beard,  a  year  after  the  Staplehurst  accident,  that  I 
'  was  certain  that  my  heart  had  been  fluttered,  and  wanted  a  little 
'  helping.    This  the  stethoscope  confirmed ;  and  considering  the 

*  immense  exertion  I  am  undergoing,  and  the  constant  jarring  of 

*  express  trains,  the  case  seems  to  me  quite  intelligible.  Don't 


448 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XL 


London  :  <  say  anything  in  the  Gad's  direction  about  my  being  a  little  out 
"  *  of  sorts.    I  have  broached  the  matter  of  course ;  but  very 

*  lightly.    Indeed  there  is  no  reason  for  broaching  it  otherwise.' 

Even  to  the  close  of  that  letter  he  had  buoyed  himself  up  with 
the  hope  that  he  might  yet  be  *  coached '  and  that  the  readings 
need  not  be  discontinued.     But  Mr.  Beard  stopped  them  at 
Brought  to   once,  and  brought  his  patient  to  London.    On  Friday  morning 

town. 

the  23rd,  the  same  envelope  brought  me  a  note  from  himself  to 
say  that  he  was  well  enough,  but  tired ;  in  perfectly  good  spirits, 
not  at  all  uneasy,  and  writing  this  himself  that  I  should  have  it 
under  his  own  hand ;  with  a  note  from  his  eldest  son  to  say  that 
his  father  appeared  to  him  to  be  very  ill,  and  that  a  consultation 
had  been  appointed  with  Sir  Thomas  Watson.  The  statement  of 
that  distinguished  physician,  sent  to  myself  in  June  1872,  com- 
pletes for  the  present  the  sorrowful  narrative. 

*  It  was,  I  think,  on  the  23rd  of  April  1869  that  I  was  asked 

*  to  see  Charles  Dickens,  in  consultation  with  Mr.  Carr  Beard. 

*  After  I  got  home  I  jotted  down,  from  their  joint  account,  what 
'  follows. 

Sir  Thomas      *  After  unusual  irritability,  C.  D.  found  himself,  last  Saturday 

Watson's  .  ,  '  ^ 

note  of       <■  or  Sunday,  giddy,  with  a  tendency  to  go  backwards,  and  to  turn 

*  round.    Afterwards,  desiring  to  put  something  on  a  small  table, 

*  he  pushed  it  and  the  table  forwards,  undesignedly.    He  had 

*  some  odd  feeling  of  insecurity  about  his  left  leg,  as  if  there  was 

*  something  unnatural  about  his  heel ;  but  he  could  lift,  and  he 

*  did  not  drag,  his  leg.    Also  he  spoke  of  some  strangeness  of  his 

*  left  hand  and  arm  ;  missed  the  spot  on  which  he  wished  to  lay 

*  that  hand,  unless  he  carefully  looked  at  it ;  felt  an  unreadiness 

*  to  lift  his  hands  towards  his  head,  especially  his  left  hand — 

*  when,  for  instance,  he  was  brushing  his  hair. 

*  He  had  written  thus  to  Mr.  Carr  Beard. 

*  "  Is  it  possible  that  anything  in  my  medicine  can  have 

*  "  made  me  extremely  giddy,  extremely  uncertain  of  my  footing, 
'  "  especially  on  the  left  side,  and  extremely  indisposed  to 

*  "  raise  my  hands  to  my  head.  These  symptoms  made  me  very 
'  "uncomfortable  on   Saturday  (qy.  Sunday?)  night,  and  all 

*  "yesterday,  &c." 


Last  Readings, 


449 


*  The  state  thus  described  showed  plainly  that  C.  D.  had  London: 

1869. 

*  been  on  the  brink  of  an  attack  of  paralysis  of  his  left  side,  g.^ Thomas 
'  and  possibly  of  apoplexy.     It  was,  no  doubt,  the  result  of 

*  extreme  hurry,  overwork,  and  excitement,  incidental  to  his 

*  Readings. 

'  On  hearing  from  him  Mr.  Carr  Beard  had  gone  at  once  to 
'  Preston,  or  Blackburn  (I  am  not  sure  which),  had  forbidden 
'  his  reading  that  same  evening,  and   had   brought  him  to 

*  London. 

*  When  I  saw  him  he  appeared  to  be  well.    His  mind  was  un- 

*  clouded,  his  pulse  quiet.  His  heart  was  beating  with  some 
'  slight  excess  of  the  natural  impulse.    He  told  me  he  had  of 

*  late  sometimes,  but  rarely,  lost  or  misused  a  word ;  that  he 

*  forgot  names,  and  numbers,  but  had  always  done  that ;  and  he 

*  promised  implicit  obedience  to  our  injunctions. 

*  We  gave  him  the  following  certificate. 

*  The  undersigned  certify  that  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  has  been 
'  "  seriously  unwell,  through  great  exhaustion  and  fatigue  of  body 
'  "  and  mind  consequent  upon  his  public  Readings  and  long  and 

*  "frequent  railway  journeys.    In  our  judgment  Mr.  Dickens  will 

*  "  not  be  able  with  safety  to  himself  to  resume  his  Readings  for 

*  "  several  months  to  come. 

<"Thos.  Watson,  M.D. 
*"F.  Carr  Beard." 

*  However,  after  some  weeks,  he  expressed  a  wish  for  my 

*  sanction  to  his  endeavours  to  redeem,  in  a  careful  and  moderate 

*  way,  some  of  the  reading  engagements  to  which  he  had  been 
'  pledged  before  those  threatnings  of  brain-mischief  in  the  North 

*  of  England. 

'  As  he  had  continued  uniformly  to  seem  and  to  feel  perfectly  ings  pro- 

*  well,  I  did  not  think  myself  warranted  to  refuse  that  sanction  : 

*  and  in  writing  to  enforce  great  caution  in  the  trials,  I  expressed 

*  some  apprehension  that  he  might  fancy  we  had  been  too  per- 

*  emptory  in  our  injunctions  of  mental  and  bodily  repose  in  April; 

*  and  I  quoted  the  following  remark,  which  occurs  somewhere  in 

*  one  of  Captain  Cook's  Voyages.     "  Preventive  measures  are 

VOL.  \\.  Q  G 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  xi. 

*  "always  invidious,  for  when  most  successful,  the  necessity  for 
'  "them  is  the  least  apparent." 

'  I  mention  this  to  explain  the  letter  which  I  send  herewith,* 

*  and  which  I  must  beg  you  to  return  to  me,  as  a  precious  remem- 

*  brance  of  the  writer  with  whom  I  had  long  enjoyed  very  friendly 

*  and  much  valued  relations. 

*  I  scarcely  need  say  that  if  what  I  have  now  written,  can, 

*  in  any  way^  be  of  use  to  you,  it  is  entirely  at  your  service 
*■  and  disposal — nor  need  I  say  with  how  much  interest  I 
'  have  read  the  first  volume  of  your  late  friend's  Life.  I  cannot 
'  help  regretting  that  a  great  pressure  of  professional  work  at 
'  the  time,  prevented  my  making  a  fuller  record  of  a  case  so 

*  interesting.' 

The  twelve  readings  to  which  Sir  Thomas  Watson  consented, 
with  the  condition  that  railway  travel  was  not  to  accompany  them, 
were  farther  to  be  delayed  until  the  opening  months  of  1870. 
They  were  an  offering  from  Dickens  by  way  of  small  compensa- 
tion to  Messrs.  Chappell  for  the  breakdown  of  the  enterprise  on 
which  they  had  staked  so  much.  But  here  practically  he  finished 
his  career  as  a  public  reader,  and  what  remains  will  come  with 
the  sad  winding-up  of  the  story.  One  effort  only  intervened,  by 
which  he  hoped  to  get  happily  back  to  his  old  pursuits ;  but 
to  this,  as  to  that  which  preceded  it,  sterner  Fate  said  also  No, 
and  his  Last  Book,  like  his  Last  Readings,  prematurely  closed. 


*  In  this  letter  Dickens  wrote  :  *  I 

*  thank  you  heartily  *  {23rd  of  June 
1869)  *for  your  great  kindness  and  in- 

*  terest.    It  would  really  pain  me  if  I 

*  thought  you  could  seriously  doubt 

*  my  implicit  reliance  on  your  profes- 
'  sional  skill  and  advice.    I  feel  as 

*  certain  now  as  I  felt  when  you  came 

*  to  see  me  on  my  breaking  down 

*  through  over  fatigue,  that  the  injunc- 


'  tion  you  laid  upon  me  to  stop  in 
'  my  course  of  Readings  was  necessary 
'  and  wise.  And  to  its  finnness  I  refer 

*  (humanly  speaking)  my  speedy  re- 
'  CO  very  from  that  moment.  I  would 
'  on  no  account  have  resumed,  even 
'  on  the  turn  of  this  year,  without  your 

*  sanction.    Your  friendly   aid  will 

*  never  be  forgotten  by  me  ;  and  again 
'  I  thank  you  for  it  with  all  my  heart. ' 


§11.] 


Last  Book. 


451 


Lokdon 
1869-70. 


II. 


LAST  BOOK. 
1869 — 1870. 

The  last  book  undertaken  by  Dickens  was  to  be  published  in 
illustrated  monthly  numbers,  of  the  old  form,  but  to  close  with 
the  twelfth.*  It  closed,  unfinished,  with  the  sixth  number,  which 
was  itself  underwritten  by  two  pages. 

His  first  fancy  for  the  tale  was  expressed  in  a  letter  in  the       ,  , 

^  thought  of 

middle  of  July.    *  What  should  you  think  of  the  idea  of  a  story 

*  beginning  in  this  way  ? — Two  people,  boy  and  girl,  or  very 

*  yoimg,  going  apart  from  one  another,  pledged  to  be  married 

*  after  many  years — at  the  end  of  the  book.     The  interest  to 

*  arise  out  of  the  tracing  of  their  separate  ways,  and  the  impos- 

*  sibility  of  telling  what  will  be  done  with  that  impending  fate. ' 


*  In  drawing  the  agreement  for 
the  publication,  Mr.  Ouvry  had,  by 
Dickens's  wish,  inserted  a  clause 
thought  to  be  altogether  needless,  but 
found  to  be  sadly  pertinent.  It  was 
the  first  time  such  a  clause  had  been 
inserted  in  one  of  his  agreements. 

*  That  if  the  said  Charles  Dickens 

*  shall  die  during  the  composition  of 
'  the  said  work  of  the  Mystery  of 

*  Edwin  Drood,  or  shall  otherwise  be- 

*  come  incapable  of  completing  the 
'  said  work  for  publication  in  twelve 
'  monthly  numbers  as  agreed,  it  shall 

*  be  referred  to  John  Forster,  Esq, 
'  one  of  Her  Majesty's  Commissioners 
'  m  Lunacy,  or  in  the  case  of  his 
'  death,  incapacity,  or  refusal  to  act, 

*  then  to  such  person  as  shall  be  named 

*  by  Her  Majesty's  Attorney-General 

*  for  the  time  being,  to  determine  the 

*  amount  which  shaU  be  repaid  by  the 

*  said  Charles  Dickens,  his  executors 

*  or  administrators,  to  the  said  Frederic 

*  Chapman  as  a  fair  compensation  for 

*  so  much  of  the  said  work  as  shall  not 


*  have  been  completed  for  publication. ' 

The  sum  to  be  paid  at  once  for  25,(X)0 

copies  was  £tSoo  ;   publisher  and 

author  sharin^i  equally  in  the  profit  of  Agreement 
„     ,     ,  ,    ,       .  .  ,  for  Edivin 

all  sales  beyond  that  impression  ;  and  Brood. 

the  number  reached,  while  the  author 

yet  lived,  was  50,000.    The  sum  paid 

for  early  sheets  to  America  was  ;^iooo ; 

and  Baron  Tauchnitz  paid  liberally,  as 

he  always  did,  for  his  Leipzig  reprint. 

*  All  Mr.  Dickens's  works,'  M.  Tauch- 
nitz writes  to  me,  *  have  been  published 

*  under  agreement  by  me.    My  inter- 

*  course  with  him  lasted  nearly  twenty - 

*  seven  years.    The  first  of  his  letters 

*  dates  in  October  1843,        his  last 

*  at  the  close  of  March  1870.  Our 

*  long  relations  were  not  only  never 

*  troubled  by  the  least  disagreement, 

*  but  were  the  occasion  of  most  hearty 
'  personal  feeling ;  and  I  shall  never 

*  lose  the  sense   of  his  kind  and 

*  friendly  nature.    On  my  asking  him 

*  his  terms  for  Edwin  Drood,  he  re- 
'  plied  "  Your  terms  shall  be  mine." ' 


452 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


London : 
1869-70. 


Tale  of 
Edwtn 
Drood  as 
lanned  in 
mind. 


Kla 
is 


This  was  laid  aside ;  but  it  left  a  marked  trace  on  the  story  as 
afterwards  designed,  in  the  position  of  Edwin  Drood  and  his 
betrothed. 

I  first  heard  of  the  later  design  in  a  letter  dated  '  Friday  the 

*  6th  of  August  1869/  in  which  after  speaking,  with  the  usual 
unstinted  praise  he  bestowed  always  on  what  moved  him  in 
others,  of  a  little  tale  he  had  received  for  his  journal,*  he  spoke 
of  the  change  that  had  occurred  to  him  for  the  new  tale  by  him- 
self.   *  I  laid  aside  the  fancy  I  told  you  of,  and  have  a  very  curious 

*  and  new  idea  for  my  new  story.    Not  a  communicable  idea 

*  (or  the  interest  of  the  book  would  be  gone),  but  a  very  strong 

*  one,  though  difficult  to  work.'  The  story,  I  learnt  immediately 
afterward,  was  to  be  that  of  the  murder  of  a  nephew  by  his 
uncle ;  the  originality  of  which  was  to  consist  in  the  review  of  the 
murderer's  career  by  himself  at  the  close,  when  its  temptations 
were  to  be  dwelt  upon  as  if,  not  he  the  culprit,  but  some  other 
man,  were  the  tempted.  The  last  chapters  were  to  be  written  in 
the  condemned  cell,  to  which  his  wickedness,  all  elaborately 
elicited  from  him  as  if  told  of  another,  had  brought  him.  Dis- 
covery by  the  murderer  of  the  utter  needlessness  of  the  murder 
for  its  object,  was  to  follow  hard  upon  commission  of  the  deed ; 
but  all  discovery  of  the  murderer  .was  to  be  baffled  till  towards 
the  close,  when,  by  means  of  a  gold  ring  which  had  resisted  the 
corrosive  effects  of  the  lime  into  which  he  had  thrown  the  body, 
not  only  the  person  murdered  was  to  be  identified  but  the  locality 
of  the  crime  and  the  man  who  committed  itf  So  much  was  told 
to  me  before  any  of  the  book  was  written ;  and  it  will  be  re- 


*  *  I  have  a  very  remarkable  story 

*  indeed  for  you  to  read.    It  is  in  only 

*  two  chapters.   A  thing  never  to  melt 

*  into  other  stories  in  the  mind,  but 
'  always  to  keep  itself  apart.'  The 
story  was  published  in  the  37th  number 
of  the  New  Series  of  All  the  Year 
Jxoundy  with  the  title  of  *  An  Experi- 
'  ence.'  The  '  New  Series '  had  been 
started  to  break  up  the  too  great  length 
of  volumes  in  sequence,  and  the  only 
change  it  announced  was  the  discon- 


tinuance of  Christmas  Numbers.  He 
had  tired  of  them  himself ;  and,  ob- 
serving the  extent  to  which  they  were 
now  copied  in  all  directions  (as  usual 
with  other  examples  set  by  him),  he 
supposed  them  likely  to  become  tire- 
some to  the  public. 

+  The  reader  curious  in  such  matters 
will  be  helped  to  the  clue  for  mueh  of 
this  portion  of  the  plot  by  reference  to 
pp.  90,  103,  and  109,  in  Chapters 
XII,  XIII,  and  XIV, 


Last  Book. 


453 


collected  that  the  ring,  taken  by  Drood  to  be  given  to  his  London: 

1869-70. 

betrothed  only  if  their  engagement  went  on,  was  brought  away  

with  him  from  their  last  interview.  Rosa  was  to  marry  Tartar, 
and  Crisparkle  the  sister  of  Landless,  who  was  himself,  I  think, 
to  have  perished  in  assisting  Tartar  finally  to  unmask  and  seize 
the  murderer. 

Nothing  had  been  written,  however,  of  the  main  parts  of  the 
design  excepting  what  is  found  in  the  published  numbers ;  there 
was  no  hint  or  preparation  for  the  sequel  in  any  notes  of  chapters 
in  advance ;  and  there  remained  not  even  what  he  had  himself 
so  sadly  written  of  the  book  by  Thackeray  also  interrupted  by 
death.  The  evidence  of  matured  designs  never  to  be  accom- 
plished, intentions  planned  never  to  be  executed,  roads  of  thought 
marked  out  never  to  be  traversed,  goals  shining  in  the  distance 
never  to  be  reached,  was  wanting  here.  It  was  all  a  blank. 
Enough  had  been  completed  nevertheless  to  give  promise  of  a 
much  greater  book  than  its  immediate  predecessor.  '  I  hope  his 
'  book  is  finished,'  wrote  Longfellow  when  the  news  of  his  death  Opinion 

of  Long- 
was  flashed  to  America.    '  It  is  certainly  one  of  his  most  beau-  fellow. 

'  tiful  works,  if  not  the  most  beautiful  of  all.    It  would  be  too 

*  sad  to  think  the  pen  had  fallen  from  his  hand,  and  left  it  in- 

*  complete.'  Some  of  its  characters  are  touched  with  subtlety, 
and  in  its  descriptions  his  imaginative  power  was  at  its  best.  Not 
a  line  was  wanting  to  the  reaUty,  in  die  most  minute  local  detail, 
of  places  the  most  widely  contrasted ;  and  we  saw  with  equal 
vividness  the  lazy  cathedral  town  and  the  lurid  opium-eater's 
den.*  Something  like  the  old  lightness  and  buoyancy  of  animal 
spirits  gave  a  new  freshness  to  the  humour ;  the  scenes  of  the 

*  I  subjoin  what  has  been  written  '  and  ready  for  sliipment  to  New  York, 

to  me  by  an  American  correspondent.  *  Another  American  bought  a  pipe. 

*  I  went  lately  with  the  same  inspector  *  So  you  see  we  have  heartily  forgiven 

*  who  accompanied  Dickens  to  see  the  *  the  novelist  his  pleasantries  at  our 

*  room  of  the  opium-smokers,  old  Eliza  'expense.    Many  military  men  who 

*  and  her  Lascar  or  Bengalee  friend.  *  come  to  England  from  America  refuse 

*  There  a  fancy  seized  me  to  buy  the  *  to  register  their  titles,  especially  if 

*  bedstead  which  figures  so  accurately  *  they  be  Colonels ;  all  the  result  of 

*  in  Edwin  Drood^  in  narrative  and  '  the  basting  we  got  on  that  score  in 

*  picture.    I  gave  the  old  woman  a     '  Martin  Chuzzlewit. ' 
pound  for  it,  and  have  it  now  packed 


454 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London  :  child-heroine  and  her  luckless  betrothed  had  both  novelty  and 
1869-70.  , 

 nicety  of  character  in  them ;  and  Mr.  Grewgious  in  chambers 

the  frag.  with  his  clcrk  and  the  two  waiters,  the  conceited  fool  Sapsea,  and 
the  blustering  philanthropist  Honeythunder,  were  first-rate 
comedy.  Miss  Twinkleton  was  of  the  family  of  Miss  La  Creevy ; 
and  the  lodging-house  keeper,  Miss  Billickin,  though  she  gave 
Miss  Twinkleton  but  a  sorry  account  of  her  blood,  had  that  of  Mrs. 
Todgers  in  her  veins.    '  I  was  put  in  early  life  to  a  very  genteel 

*  boarding-school,  the  mistress  being  no  less  a  lady  than  yourself, 

*  of  about  your  own  age,  or  it  may  be  some  years  younger,  and 

*  a  poorness  of  blood  flowed  from  the  table  which  has  run  through 

*  my  life.'  Was  ever  anything  better  said  of  a  school-fare  of 
starved  gentility  ? 

Last  page       The  last  page  of  Edwin  Drood  was  written  in  the  Chalet  in 

of  Edwin 

Drood.  the  afternoon  of  his  last  day  of  consciousness  ;  and  I  have  thought 
there  might  be  some  interest  in  a  facsimile  of  the  greater  part  of 
this  final  page  of  manuscript  that  ever  came  from  his  hand,  at 
which  he  had  worked  unusually  late  in  order  to  finish  the  chapter. 
It  has  very  much  the  character,  in  its  excessive  care  of  correc- 
tion and  interlineation,  of  all  his  later  manuscripts ;  and  in  order 
that  comparison  may  be  made  with  his  earlier  and  easier  method, 
I  place  beside  it  a  portion  of  a  page  of  the  original  of  Oliver 
Twist.  His  greater  pains  and  elaboration  of  writing,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  become  first  very  obvious  in  the  later  parts  of 
Martin  Chuzzlewit ;  but  not  the  least  remarkable  feature  in  all 
his  manuscripts,  is  the  accuracy  with  which  the  portions  of  each 
representing  the  several  numbers  are  exactly  adjusted  to  the  space 
the  printer  has  to  fill.  Whether  without  erasure  or  so  interlined 
as  to  be  illegible,  nothing  is  wanting,  and  there  is  nothing  in 
excess.  So  assured  had  the  habit  become,  that  we  have  seen  him 
remarking  upon  an  instance  the  other  way,  in  Our  Mutual  Friend, 
as  not  having  happened  to  him  for  thirty  years.  Certainly  the 
exceptions  had  been  few  and  unimportant;  but  Edwin  Drood 
more  startlingly  showed  him  how  unsettled  the  habit  he  most 
prized  had  become,  in  the  clashing  of  old  and  new  pursuits. 

*  When  I  had  written'  (22nd  of  December  1869)  'and,  as  I 

*  thought,  disposed  of  the  first  two  Numbers  of  my  sto^y,  Clowes 


§11.] 


Last  Book. 


455 


*  informed  me  to  my  horror  that  thev  were,  together,  twelve  London  : 

•'  J  ^  1869-70. 

^  printed  pages  too  short  It!    Consequently  I  had  to  transpose  a  ■ 

chapter  from  number  two  to  number  one,  and  remodel  number 

*  two  altogether  !    This  was  the  more  unlucky,  that  it  came  upon 

*  me  at  the  time  when  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  book,  in  order 

*  to  get  up  the  Readings '  (the  additional  twelve  for  which  Sir 
Thomas    Watson's  consent  had  been  obtained) ;  *  quite  gone 

*  out  of  my  mind  since  I  left  them  otf.    However,  I  turned  to 

*  it  and  got  it  done,  and  both  numbers  are  now  in  type. 

*  Charles  Collins  has  designed  an  excellent  cover.'  It  was  his 
wish  that  his  son-in-law  should  have  illustrated  the  story ;  but, 
this  not  being  practicable,  upon  an  opinion  expressed  by  Mr. 
Millais  which  the  result  thoroughly  justified,  choice  was  made  of 
Mr.  S.  L.  Fildes. 


This  reference  to  the  last  effort  of  Dickens's  genius  had  been 
written  as  it  thus  stands,  when  a  discovery  of  some  interest  was 
made  by  the  writer.    Within  the  leaves  of  one  of  Dickens's  other  Discovery 
manuscripts  were  found  some  detached  slips  of  his  writing,  on  ushid^"^" 
paper  only  half  the  size  of  that  used  for  the  tale,  so  cramped, ' 
interlined,  and  blotted  as  to  be  nearly  illegible,  which  on  close 
inspection  proved  to  be  a  scene  in  which  Sapsea  the  auctioneer 
is  introduced  as  the  principal  figure,  among  a  group  of  characters 
new  to  the  story.    The  explanation  of  it  perhaps  is,  that,  having 
become  a  little  nervous  about  the  course  of  the  tale,  from  a  fear 
that  he  might  have  plunged  too  soon  into  the  incidents  leading 
on  to  the  catastrophe,  such  as  the  Datchery  assumption  in  the 
fifth  number  (a  misgiving  he  had  certainly  expressed  to  his  sister-in- 
law),  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  open  some  fresh  veins  of  character  Probable 
incidental  to  the  interest,  though  not  directly  part  of  it,  and  so  to  writing  it 

in  advance 

handle  them  m  connection  with  Sapsea  as  a  little  to  suspend  the 
final  development  even  while  assisting  to  strengthen  it  Before 
beginning  any  number  of  a  serial,  he  used,  as  we  have  seen  in 
former  instances,  to  plan  briefly  what  he  intended  to  put  into  it 
chapter  by  chapter  ;  and  his  first  number-plan  of  Drood  had  the 
following  :  '  Mr.  Sapsea.  Old  Tory  jackass.  Connect  Jasper 
*  with  him.    (He  will  want  a  solemn  donkey  by  and  by)  : '  which 


45^  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


London : 
1869-70* 


From 
Edwin 
Drood:  the 
last  page 
written  by 
Dickens. 
8th  June 
1870. 


Last  Book. 


457 


458 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


London  :  was  effected  by  bringing  together  both  Durdles  and  Jasper,  tor 
connection  with  Sapsea,  in  the  matter  of  the  epitaph  for  Mrs. 
Sapsea's  tomb.  The  scene  now  discovered  might  in  this  view 
have  been  designed  to  strengthen  and  carry  forward  that  element 
in  the  tale  ;  and  otherwise  it  very  sufficiently  expresses  itself.  It 
would  supply  an  answer,  if  such  were  needed,  to  those  who  have 
asserted  that  the  hopeless  decadence  of  Dickens  as  a  writer  had 
set  in  before  his  death.  Among  the  lines  last  written  by  him, 
these  are  the  very  last  we  can  ever  hope  to  receive ;  and  they 
seem  to  me  a  delightful  specimen  of  the  power  possessed  by  him 
in  his  prime,  and  the  rarest  which  any  novelist  can  have,  of  re- 
vealing a  character  by  a  touch.  Here  are  a  couple  of  people, 
Kimber  and  Peartree,  not  known  to  us  before,  whom  we  read  off 
thoroughly  in  a  dozen  words  ;  and  as  to  Sapsea  himself,  auctioneer 
and  mayor  of  Cloisterham,  we  are  face  to  face  with  what  before 
we  only  dimly  realised,  and  we  see  the  solemn  jackass,  in  his 
business  pulpit,  playing  off  the  airs  of  Mr.  Dean  in  his  Cathedral 
pulpit,  with  Cloisterham  laughing  at  the  impostor. 


•  HOW  MR.  SAPSEA  CEASED  TO  BE  A  MEMBER  OF 
'THE  EIGHT  CLUB. 

*  TOLD  BY  HIMSELF. 

*  Wishing  to  take  the  air,  I  proceeded  by  a  circuitous  route  to 

*  the  Club,  it  being  our  weekly  night  of  meeting.    I  found  that  we 

*  mustered  our  full  strength.    We  were  enrolled  under  the  de- 

*  nomination  of  the  Eight  Club.    We  were  eight  in  number ;  we 

*  met  at  eight  o'clock  during  eight  months  of  the  year ;  we  played 
Unpub-       *  eight  games  of  four-handed  cribbage,  at  eightpence  the  game ; 

lished  scene    ,  ^  j      <-     •  i  n         •  i 

for  Edwin    *  our  frugal  supper  was  composed  of  eight  rolls,  eight  mutton 

Dvood, 

*  chops,  eight  pork  sausages,  eight  baked  potatoes,  eight  marrow- 

*  bones,  with  eight  toasts,  and  eight  bottles  of  ale.    There  may,  or 

*  may  not,  be  a  certain  harmony  of  colour  in  the  ruling  idea  of 

*  this  (to  adopt  a  phrase  of  our  lively  neighbours)  reunion.  It 

*  was  a  little  idea  of  mine. 

•  A  somewhat  popular  member  of  the  Eight  Club,  was  a  member 

*  by  the  name  ot  Kimber.    By  profession,  a  dancing-master.  A 


§11.] 


Last  Book, 


459 


*  commonplace,  hopeful  sort  of  man,  wholly  destitute  of  dignity   London  : 

^  ^  1869-70. 

*  or  knowledge  of  the  world.   ~ 

*  As  I  entered  the  Club-room,  Kimber  was  making  the  re- 

*  mark :  "  And  he  still  half-believes  him  to  be  very  high  in  the 

*  "  Church." 

*  In  the  act  of  hanging  up  my  hat  on  the  eighth  peg  by  the  Unpub- 

lished scene 

*  door,  I  caught  Kimber's  visual  ray.    He  lowered  it,  and  passed  for  Edwipi 

Drood. 

*  a  remark  on  the  next  change  of  the  moon.    I  did  not  take  par- 

*  ticular  notice  of  this  at  the  moment,  because  the  world  was  often 

*  pleased  to  be  a  little  shy  of  ecclesiastical  topics  in  my  presence. 

*  For  I  felt  that  I  was  picked  out  (though  perhaps  only  through  a 

*  coincidence)  to  a  certain  extent  to  represent  what  I  call  our 
'  glorious  constitution  in  Church  and  State.  The  phrase  may  be 
'  objected  to  by  captious  minds ;  but  I  own  to  it  as  mine.  I 

*  threw  it  off  in  argument  some  little  time  back.    I  said  :  "  Our 

*  Glorious  Constitution  in  Church  and  State." 

*  Another  member  of  the  Eight  Club  was  Peartree ;  also 

*  member  of  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons.     Mr.  Peartree  is 

*  not  accountable  to  me  for  his  opinions,  and  I  say  no  more  of 

*  them  here  than  that  he  attends  the  poor  gratis  whenever  they 

*  want  him,  and  is  not  the  parish  doctor.    Mr.  Peartree  may 

*  justify  it  to  the  grasp  of  his  mind  thus  to  do  his  republican 
'  utmost  to  bring  an  appointed  officer  into  contempt.  Suffice 

*  it  that  Mr.  Peartree  can  never  justify  it  to  the  grasp  of 

*  mine. 

*  Between  Peartree  and  Kimber  there  was  a  sickly  sort  of 

*  feeble-minded  alliance.     It  came  under  my  particular  notice 

*  when  I  sold  off  Kimber  by  auction.    (Goods  taken  in  execu- 

*  tion.)     He  was  a  widower  in  a  white  under-waistcoat,  and 

*  slight  shoes  with  bows,  and  had  two  daughters  not  ill-looking. 

*  Indeed  the  reverse.   Both  daughters  taught  dancing  in  scholastic 

*  establishments  for  Young  Ladies — had  done  so  at  Mrs.  Sap- 

*  sea's ;  nay,  Twinkleton's — and  both,  in  giving  lessons,  presented 

*  the  unwomanly  spectacle  of  having  little  fiddles  tucked  under 

*  their  chins.    In  spite  of  which,  the  younger  one  might,  if  I  am 

*  correctly  informed — I  will  raise  the  veil  so  far  as  to  say  I  know 

*  she  might — have  soared  for  life  from  this  degrading  taint,  but 


460 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


London  :  *  for  having  the  class  of  mind  allotted  to  what  I  call  the  common 
1869-70. 

 *  herd,  and  being  so  incredibly  devoid  of  veneration  as  to  become 

*  painfully  ludicrous. 

Unpub-  <■  When  I  sold  off  Kimber  without  reserve,  Peartree  (as  poor  as 

ashed  scene  '  ^  ^ 

^Drfof""'    *  together)  had  several  prime  household  lots  knocked 

*  down  to  him.  I  am  not  to  be  blinded  ;  and  of  course  it  was  as 
'  plain  to  me  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  them,  as  it  was  that 

*  he  was  a  brown  hulking  sort  of  revolutionary  subject  who  had 

*  been  in  India  with  the  soldiers,  and  ought  (for  the  sake  of 

*  society)  to  have  his  neck  broke.    I  saw  the  lots  shortly  after- 

*  wards  in  Kimber's  lodgings — through  the  window — and  I  easily 

*  made  out  that  there  had  been  a  sneaking  pretence  of  lending 

*  them  till  better  times.    A  man  with  a  smaller  knowledge  of 

*  the  world  than  myself  might  have  been  led  to  suspect  that 
'  Kimber  had  held  back  money  from  his  creditors,  and  fraudu- 

*  lently  bought  the  goods.    But,  besides  that  I  knew  for  certain 

*  he  had  no  money,  I  knew  that  this  would  involve  a  species 

*  of  forethought  not  to  be  made  compatible  with  the  frivolity 
'  of  a  caperer,  inoculating  other  people  with  capering,  for  his 

*  bread. 

*  As  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  either  of  those  two  since 

*  the  sale,  I  kept  myself  in  what  I  call  Abeyance.    When  selling 

*  him  up,  I  had  delivered  a  few  remarks — shall  I  say  a  little 

*  homily  ? — concerning  Kimber,  which  the  world  did  regard  as 

*  more  than  usually  worth  notice.    I  had  come  up  into  my  pulpit, 

*  it  was  said,  uncommonly  like — and  a  murmur  of  recognition  had 

*  repeated  his  (I  will  not  name  whose)  title,  before  I  spoke.  I 

*  had  then  gone  on  to  say  that  all  present  would  find,  in  the  first 

*  page  of  the  catalogue  that  was  lying  before  them,  in  the  last 

*  paragraph  before  the  first  lot,  the  following  words :  "  Sold  in 

*  pursuance  of  a  writ  of  execution  issued  by  a  creditor."    I  had 

*  then  proceeded  to  remind  my  friends,  that  however  frivolous, 

*  not  to  say  contemptible,  the  business  by  which  a  man  got  his 

*  goods  together,  still  his  goods  were  as  dear  to  him,  and  as  cheap 

*  to  society  (if  sold  without  reserve),  as  though  his  pursuits  had 

*  been  of  a  character  that  would  bear  serious  contemplation.  I 

*  had  then  divided  my  text  (if  I  may  be  allowed  so  to  call  it)  into 


§11.] 


Last  Book. 


461 


*  three  heads  :  firstly,  Sold ;  secondly,  In  pursuance  of  a  writ  of  : 

*  execution  ;  thirdly,  Issued  by  a  creditor;  with  a  few  moral  re-  

'  flections  on  each,  and  winding  up  with,  "  Now  to  the  first  lot " 

*  in  a  manner  that  was  complimented  when  I  afterwards  mingled 

*  with  my  hearers. 

'  So,  not  being  certain  on  what  terms  I  and  Kimber  stood,  I  Unpub- 
lished scene 

*  was  grave,  I  was  chilling.    Kimber,  however,  moving  to  me,  I  for  Edwin 

_  Dfood. 

*  moved  to  Kimber.    (I  was  the  creditor  who  had  issued  the  writ. 

*  Not  that  it  matters.) 

*  "  I  was  alluding,  Mr.  Sapsea,"  said  Kimber,  "  to  a  stranger 

*  "  who  entered  into  conversation  with  me  in  the  street  as  I  came 
'  "  to  the  Club.    He  had  been  speaking  to  you  just  before,  it 

*  "  seemed,  by  the  churchyard  ;  and  though  you  had  told  him  who 

*  "  you  were,  I  could  hardly  persuade  him  that  you  were  not  high 

*  "in  the  Church." 

*  "  Idiot !  "  said  Peartree. 

*  "Ass!  "said  Kimber. 

*  "  Idiot  and  Ass  !  "  said  the  other  five  members. 

*  "  Idiot  and  Ass,  gentlemen,"  I  remonstrated,  looking  around 

*  me,  "are  strong  expressions  to  apply  to  a  young  man  of  good 

*  "  appearance  and  address."     My  generosity  was  roused ;  I 

*  own  it. 

*  "  You'll  admit  that  he  must  be  a  Fool,"  said  Peartree. 

*  "  You  can't  deny  that   he   must  be  a  Blockhead,"  said 

*  Kimber. 

'Their  tone  of  disgust  amounted  to  Being  offensive.  Why 

*  should  the  young  man  be  so  calumniated  ?  What  had  he  done  ? 
'  He  had  only  made  an  innocent  and  natural  mistake.    I  con- 

*  trolled  my  generous  indignation,  and  said  so. 

'  "  Natural  ?  "  repeated  Kimber.  "  H^s  a  Natural !  " 

'  The  remaining  six  members  of  the  Eight  Club  laughed  unani- 

*  mously.    It  stung  me.    It  was  a  scornful  laugh.    My  anger  was 

*  roused  in  behalf  of  an  absent,  friendless  stranger.    I  rose  (for  I 

*  had  been  sitting  down). 

*  "  Gentlemen,"  I  said  with  dignity,  "  I  will  not  remain  one  of 
'  "  this  Club  allowing  opprobrium  to  be  cast  on  an  unoffending 

*  "  person  in  his  absence.    I  will  not  so  violate  what  I  call  the 


462  The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  xi. 

*  "  sacred  rites  of  hospitality.    Gentlemen,  until  you  know  how  to 

*  "  behave  yourselves  better,  I  leave  you.    Gentlemen,  until  then 

*  "I  withdraw,  from  this  place  of  meeting,  whatever  personal 

*  qualifications  I  may  have  brought  into  it.    Gentlemen,  until 

*  "  then  you  cease  to  be  the  Eight  Club,  and  must  make  the  best 

*  "  you  can  of  becoming  the  Seven." 

*  I  put  on  my  hat  and  retired.    As  I  went  down  stairs  I  dis- 

*  tinctly  heard  them  give  a  suppressed  cheer.    Such  is  the  power 

*  of  demeanour  and  knowledge  of  mankind.    I  had  forced  it  out 

*  of  them. 

'  II. 

*  Whom  should  I  meet  in  the  street,  within  a  few  yards  of  the 

*  door  of  the  inn  where  the  Club  was  held,  but  the  self-same 
'  young  man  whose  cause  I  had  felt  it  my  duty  so  warmly — and  I 

*  will  add  so  disinterestedly — to  take  up. 

*  "  Is  it  Mr.  Sapsea,"  he  said  doubtfully,  "  or  is  it  " 

'  "  It  is  Mr.  Sapsea,"  I  replied. 

*  "  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Sapsea  ;  you  appear  warm,  sir." 

*  "  I  have  been  warm."  I  said,  "and on  your  account."  Having 

*  stated  the  circumstances  at  some  length  (my  generosity  almost 
'  overpowered  him),  I  asked  him  his  name. 

'  "Mr.  Sapsea,"  he  answered,  looking  down,  "your  penetration 

*  "  is  so  acute,  your  glance  into  the  souls  of  your  fellow  men  is  so 

*  "  penetrating,  that  if  I  was  hardy  enough  to  deny  that  my  name 

*  "  is  Poker,  what  would  it  avail  me  ?  " 
'  I  don't  know  that  I  had  quite  exactly  made  out  to  a  fraction 

'  that  his  name  was  Poker,  but  I  daresay  I  had  been  pretty  near 

*  doing  it. 

'  "  Well,  well,"  said  I,  trying  to  put  him  at  his  ease  by  nodding 

*  my  head  in  a  soothing  way.    "Your  name  is  Poker,  and  there 

*  "  is  no  harm  in  being  named  Poker." 

*  "  Oh  Mr.  Sapsea ! "  cried  the  young  man,  in  a  very  well- 

*  behaved  manner.    "  Bless  you  for  those  words  ! "    He  then,  as 

*  if  ashamed  of  having  given  way  to  his  feelings,  looked  down 

*  again. 

'  "  Come,  Poker,"  said  I,  "  let  me  hear  more  about  you.  Tell 


London : 
1869-70. 


Unputv- 
Ushed  scene 
for  Edwin 
Drood. 


§  III.]  Personal  Characteristics. 


463 


*  "me.  Where  are  you  going  to,  Poker  ?  and  where  do  you  come  London: 

1869-70. 

'"from?"   

*  "  Ah  Mr.  Sapsea  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man.    "  Disguise  ^J^J^^.^^^ 

*  "  from  you  is  impossible.    You  know  already  that  I  come  from 

*  "  somewhere,  and  am  going  somewhere  else.    If  I  was  to  deny 
'  "  it,  what  would  it  avail  me  ?  " 

'  "  Then  don't  deny  it,"  was  my  remark. 

'  "  Or,"  pursued  Poker,  in  a  kind  of  despondent  rapture, 
'  "  or  if  I  was  to  deny  that  I  came  to  this  town  to  see  and 

*  "  hear  you  sir,  what  would  it  avail  me  ?    Or  if  I  was  to 
'  "  deny  " ' 

The  fragment  ends  there,  and  the  hand  that  could  alone  have 
completed  it  is  at  rest  for  ever. 


Some  personal  characteristics  remain  for  illustration  before  the 
end  is  briefly  told. 


III. 

PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS. 
1836— 1870. 

Objection  has  been  taken  to  this  biography  as  likely  to  dis- 
appoint its  readers  in  not  making  them  '  talk  to  Dickens  as 
*  Boswell  makes  them  talk  to  Johnson.'  But  where  will  the 
blame  lie  if  a  man  takes  up  Pickwick  and  is  disappointed  to  find 
that  he  is  not  reading  Rasselas  ?  A  book  must  be  judged  for 
what  it  aims  to  be,  and  not  for  what  it  cannot  by  possibility  be. 
I  suppose  so  remarkable  an  author  as  Dickens  hardly  ever  lived  Dickens  no: 

•    T        Tir  T  .  a  bookish 

who  earned  so  little  of  authorship  into  ordinary  social  intercourse.  ^^"^ 
Potent  as  the  sway  of  his  writings  was  over  him,  it  expressed 
itself  in  other  ways.    Traces  or  triumphs  of  literary  labour,  dis- 
plays of  conversational  or  other  personal  predominance,  were  no 


464 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens, 


[Book  XI. 


London ! 
1836-70. 


What  de- 
termines 
a  book's 
place. 


Dickens 
made  to 
tell  his  01 
itory. 


part  of  the  influence  he  exerted  over  friends.  To  them  he  was 
-  only  the  pleasantest  of  companions,  with  whom  they  forgot  that 
he  had  ever  written  anything,  and  felt  only  the  charm  which  a 
nature  of  such  capacity  for  supreme  enjoyment  causes  every  one 
around  it  to  enjoy.  His  talk  was  unaffected  and  natural,  never 
bookish  in  the  smallest  degree.  He  was  quite  up  to  the  average 
of  well  read  men ;  but  as  there  was  no  ostentation  of  it  in  his 
writing,  so  neither  was  there  in  his  conversation.  This  was  so 
attractive  because  so  keenly  observant,  and  lighted  up  with  so 
many  touches  of  humorous  fancy;  but,  with  every  possible 
thing  to  give  relish  to  it,  there  were  not  many  things  to  bring 
away. 

Of  course  a  book  must  stand  or  fall  by  its  contents.  Macaulay 
said  very  truly  that  the  place  of  books  in  the  public  estimation  is 
fixed,  not  by  what  is  written  about  them,  but  by  what  is  written  in 
them.  I  offer  no  complaint  of  any  remark  made  upon  these 
volumes,  but  there  have  been  some  misapprehensions.  Though 
Dickens  bore  outwardly  so  little  of  the  impress  of  his  wiitings, 
they  formed  the  whole  of  that  inner  life  which  essentially  con- 
stituted the  man ;  and  as  in  this  respect  he  was  actually,  I  have 
thought  that  his  biography  should  endeavour  to  present  him. 
The  story  of  his  books,  therefore,  at  all  stages  of  their  progress, 
and  of  the  hopes  or  designs  connected  with  them,  was  my  first 
care.  With  that  view,  and  to  give  also  to  the  memoir  what  was 
attainable  of  the  value  of  autobiography,  letters  to  myself,  such 
as  were  never  addressed  to  any  other  of  his  correspondents,  and 
covering  all  the  important  incidents  in  the  life  to  be  retraced,  were 
used  with  few  exceptions  exclusively ;  and  though  the  exceptions 
are  much  more  numerous  in  the  later  sections,  this  general  plan 
has  guided  me  to  the  end.  Such  were  my  limits  indeed,  that  half 
even  of  those  letters  had  to  be  put  aside  ;  and  to  have  added  all 
such  others  as  were  open  to  me  would  have  doubled  the  size  of 
my  book,  not  contributed  to  it  a  new  fact  of  life  or  character,  and 
altered  materially  its  design.  It  would  have  been  so  much  lively 
illustration  added  to  the  subject,  but  out  of  place  here.  The 
purpose  here  was  to  make  Dickens  the  sole  central  figure  in  the 
scenes  revived,  narrator  as  well  as  principal  actor ;  and  only  by 


§  III.]  Personal  Characteristics. 


465 


the  means  employed  could  consistency  or  unity  be  given  to  the  London 
.  1836-70. 
self-revelation,  and  the  picture  made  definite  and  clear.    It  is  the  

peculiarity  of  few  men  to  be  to  their  most  intimate  friend  neither 
more  nor  less  than  they  are  to  themselves,  but  this  was  true  of 
Dickens ;  and  what  kind  or  quality  of  nature  such  intercourse 
expressed  in  him,  of  what  strength,  tenderness,  and  delicacy  sus- 
ceptible, of  what  steady  level  warmth,  of  what  daily  unresting 
activity  of  intellect,  of  what  unbroken  continuity  of  kindly  im- 
pulse through  the  change  and  vicissitude  of  three-and-thirty  years, 
the  letters  to  myself  given  in  these  volumes  could  alone  express. 
Gathered  from  various  and  differing  sources,  their  interest  could 
not  have  been  as  the  interest  of  these ;  in  which  everything  com- 
prised in  the  successive  stages  of  a  most  attractive  career  is 
written  with  unexampled  candour  and  truthfulness,  and  set  forth 
in  definite  pictures  of  what  he  saw  and  stood  in  the  midst  of,  un- 
blurred  by  vagueness  or  reserve.    Of  the  charge  of  obtruding  a  fault  not 

consciously 

myself  to  which  their  publication  has  exposed  me,  I  can  only  committed, 
say  that  I  studied  nothing  so  hard  as  to  suppress  my  own  per- 
sonality, and  have  to  regret  my  ill  success  where  I  supposed  I 
had  even  too  perfectly  succeeded.  But  we  have  all  of  us  fre- 
quent occasion  to  say,  parodying  Mrs.  Peachem's  remark,  that  we 
are  bitter  bad  judges  of  ourselves. 

The  other  properties  of  these  letters  are  quite  subordinate  to 
this  main  fact  that  the  man  who  wrote  them  is  thus  perfectly  seen 
in  them.  But  they  do  not  lessen  the  estimate  of  his  genius. 
Admiration  rises  higher  at  the  writer's  mental  forces,  who,  putting 
so  much  of  himself  into  his  work  for  the  public,  had  still  so  much 
overflowing  for  such  private  intercourse.  The  sunny  health  of 
nature  in  them  is  manifest ;  its  largeness,  spontaneity,  and  manli- 
ness ;  but  they  have  also  that  which  highest  intellects  appreciate 
best.    *  I  have  read  them,'  Lord  Russell  wrote  to  me,  '  with  Lord 

*  delight  and  pain.    His  heart,  his  imagination,  his  qualities  of  DickensT 

*  painting  what  is  noble,  and  finding  diamonds  hidden  far  away, 

*  are  greater  here  than  even  his  works  convey  to  me.    How  I 

*  lament  he  was  not  spared  to  us  longer.    I  shall  have  a  fresh 

*  grief  when  he  dies  in  your  volumes.'  Shallower  people  are 
more  apt  to  find  other  things.    If  the  bonhommie  of  a  man's 

VOL.  n.  H  H 


466 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London:  genius  is  obvious  to  all  the  world,  there  are  plenty  of  knowing 
ones  ready  to  take  the  shine  out  of  the  genius,  to  discover  that 
after  all  it  is  not  so  wonderful,  that  what  is  grave  in  it  wants 
depth,  and  the  humour  has  something  mechanical.  But  it  will  be 
difficult  even  for  these  to  look  over  letters  so  marvellous  in  the 
art  of  reproducing  to  the  sight  what  has  once  been  seen,  so 
natural  and  unstudied  in  their  wit  and  fun,  and  with  such  a  con- 
stant well-spring  of  sprightly  runnings  of  speech  in  them,  point  of 
epigram,  ingenuity  of  quaint  expression,  absolute  freedom  from 
every  touch  of  affectation,  and  to  believe  that  the  source  of  this 
man's  humour,  or  of  whatever  gave  wealth  to  his  genius,  was 
other  than  habitual,  unbounded,  and  resistless. 

There  is  another  consideration  of  some  importance.  Sterne  did 
not  more  incessantly  fall  back  from  his  works  upon  himself  than 
Dickens  did,  and  undoubtedly  one  of  the  impressions  left  by  the 
letters  is  that  of  the  intensity  and  tenacity  with  which  he  recognized, 
realized,  contemplated,  cultivated,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed,  his  own 
individuality  in  even  its  most  trivial  manifestations.  But  if  any  one 
is  led  to  ascribe  this  to  self-esteem,  to  a  narrow  exclusiveness,  or 
to  any  other  invidious  form  of  egotism,  let  him  correct  the  im- 
pression by  observing  how  Dickens  bore  himself  amid  the 
How         universal  blazing-up  of  America,  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end 

Dickens  .    ,  .     ,  .  , 

underwent    of  his  carccr.     Of  his  hearty,  undisguised,  and  unmistakeable 

popularity.  ,  , 

enjoyment  of  his  astonishing  and  indeed  quite  bewildering  popu- 
larity, there  can  be  as  little  doubt  as  that  there  is  not  a  particle  of 
vanity  in  it,  any  more  than  of  false  modesty  or  grimace.*  While 
realizing  fully  the  fact  of  it,  and  the  worth  of  the  fact,  there  is  not 

In  1842.  *  Mr,  Grant  Wilson  has  sent  me  an  '  fellow,  with  nothing  of  the  author 

extract  from  a  letter  by  Fitz-Greene  *  about  him  but  the  reputation,  and 

Halleck  (author  of  one  of  the  most  *  goes  through  his  task  as  Lion  with 

delightful  poems  ever  written  about  '  exemplary  grace,  patience,  and  good 

Burns)  which  exactly  expresses  Dickens  *  nature.    He  has  the  brilliant  face  of 

as  he  was,  not  only  in  1842,  but,  as  '  a  man  of  genius  .  .  .  His  writings 

far  as  the  sense  of  authorship  went,  all  *  you  know.    I  wish  you  had  listened 

his  life.    It  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  '  to  his  eloquence  at  the  dinner  here. 

Rush  of  Philadelphia,  and  is  dated  the  *  It  was  the  only  real  specimen  of  elo- 

8th  of  March  1842.    *  You  ask  me  *  quence  I  have  ever  witnessed.  Its 

*  about  Mr,  Boz.  1  am  quite  delighted  *  charm  was  not  in  its  words,  but  in 

'  with  him.    He  is  a  thorough  good  *  the  manner  of  saying  them.' 


Perso7tal  Characteristics. 


467 


in  his  whole  being  a  fibre  that  answers  falsely  to  the  charmer's  • 

voice.    Few  men  in  the  world,  one  fancies,  could  have  gone  

through  such  grand  displays  of  fireworks,  not  merely  with  so 
marvellous  an  absence  of  what  the  French  call  pose^  but  unsoiled 
by  the  smoke  of  a  cracker.  No  man's  strong  individuality  was 
ever  so  free  from  conceit. 

Other  personal  incidents  and  habits,  and  especially  some  matters 
of  opinion  of  grave  importance,  will  help  to  make  his  character 
better  known.  Much  questioning  followed  a  brief  former  reference 
to  his  religion,  but,  inconsistent  or  illogical  as  the  conduct  described 
may  be,  there  is  nothing  to  correct  in  my  statement  of  it ;  *  and 
to  any  doubt  there  still  may  be  in  regard  to  the  essentials  of  his 
faith,  answer  will  be  afforded  by  a  letter  written  on  the  occasion 
of  his  youngest  boy  leaving  home  in  September  1868  to  join  his 
brother  in  Australia,  than  which  none  worthier  appears  in  his 
story.    *  I  write  this  note  to-day  because  your  going  away  is  much  Letter 

*  upon  my  mind,  and  because  I  want  you  to  have  a  few  parting  youngest 

*  words  from  me,  to  think  of  now  and  then  at  quiet  times.    I  need 

*  not  tell  you  that  I  love  you  dearly,  and  am  very,  very  sorry  in 
'  my  heart  to  part  with  you.    But  this  life  is  half  made  up  of  part- 

*  ings,  and  these  pains  must  be  borne.    It  is  my  comfort  and  my 

*  sincere  conviction  that  you  are  going  to  try  the  life  for  which  you 

*  are  best  fitted.  I  think  its  freedom  and  wildness  more  suited  to 
'  you  than  any  experiment  in  a  study  or  office  would  have  been  ; 

*  and  without  that  training,  you  could  have  followed  no  other  suit- 

*  able  occupation.  What  you  have  always  wanted  until  now,  has 
'  been  a  set,  steady,  constant  purpose.  I  therefore  exhort  you  to 
'  persevere  in  a  thorough  determination  to  do  whatever  you  have 

'  to  do  as  well  as  you  can  do  it.   I  was  not  so  old  as  you  are  now,  his  own 
'  when  I  first  had  to  win  my  food,  and  to  do  it  out  of  this  determi-  ^''^"'p'"" 
'  nation ;  and  I  have  never  slackened  in  it  since.    Never  take  a 
'  mean  advantage  of  any  one  in  any  transaction,  and  never  be 
'  hard  upon  people  who  are  in  your  power.    Try  to  do  to  others 
'  as  you  would  have  them  do  to  you,  and  do  not  be  discouraged  if 

*  In  a  volume  called  Home  and  on  matters  alluded  to  in  the  text,  held 
Abroady  by  Mr.  David  Macrae,  is  in  1 86 1,  which  will  be  found  to  confirm 
printed  a  correspondencewith  Dickens    all  that  is  here  said. 

H  H  2 


468 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London 
1868. 


Ante, 
i.  457- 


Personal 
prayer. 


'  they  fail  sometimes.    It  is  much  better  for  you  that  they  should 

*  fail  in  obeying  the  greatest  rule  laid  down  by  Our  Saviour  than 

*  that  you  should.    I  put  a  New  Testament  among  your  books  for 

*  the  very  same  reasons,  and  with  the  very  same  hopes,  that  made 

*  me  write  an  easy  account  of  it  for  you,  when  you  were  a  little 

*  child.    Because  it  is  the  best  book  that  ever  was,  or  will  be, 

*  known  in  the  world  ;  and  because  it  teaches  you  the  best  lessons 

*  by  which  any  human  creature,  who  tries  to  be  truthful  and  faith- 

*  ful  to  duty,  can  possibly  be  guided.  As  your  brothers  have  gone 
'  away,  one  by  one,  I  have  written  to  each  such  words  as  I  am 
'  now  writing  to  you,  and  have  entreated  them  all  to  guide  them- 
'  selves  by  this  Book,  putting  aside  the  interpretations  and  inven- 
'  tions  of  Man.    You  will  remember  that  you  have  never  at  home 

*  been  harassed  about  religious  observances,  or  mere  formalities. 

*  I  have  always  been  anxious  not  to  weary  my  children  with  such 

*  things,  before  they  are  old  enough  to  form  opinions  respecting 
'  them.  You  will  therefore  understand  the  better  that  I  now  most 
'  solemnly  impress  upon  you  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the  Christian 
'  Religion,  as  it  came  from  Christ  Himself,  and  the  impossibility  of 

*  your  going  far  wrong  if  you  humbly  but  heartily  respect  it  Only 
'  one  thing  more  on  this  head.    The  more  we  are  in  earnest  as  to 

*  feeling  it,  the  less  we  are  disposed  to  hold  forth  about  it  Never 
^  abandon  the  wholesome  practice  of  saying  your  own  private 
'  prayers,  night  and  morning.  I  have  never  abandoned  it  myself, 
'  and  I  know  the  comfort  of  it.  I  hope  you  will  always  be  able  to 
<■  say  in  after  life,  that  you  had  a  kind  father.  You  cannot  show 
'■  your  affection  for  him  so  well,  or  make  him  so  happy,  as  by  doing 
'  your  duty.'  They  who  most  intimately  knew  Dickens  will  know 
best  that  every  word  there  is  written  from  his  heart,  and  is  radiant 
with  the  truth  of  his  nature. 

To  the  same  effect,  in  the  leading  matter,  he  expressed  himself 
twelve  years  before,  and  again  the  day  before  his  death ;  replying 
in  both  cases  to  correspondents  who  had  addressed  him  as  a  public 
writer.  A  clergyman,  the  Rev.  R.  H.  Davies,  had  been  struck  by 
the  hymn  in  the  Christmas  tale  of  the  Wreck  of  the  Golden  Mary 
(^Household  Words,  1856).  '  I  beg  to  thank  you'  Dickens  answered 
(Christmas  Eve,  1856)  'for  your  very  acceptable  letter — not  the 


§  1 1  I.J  Personal  Characteristics, 


469 


*  less  gratifying  to  me  because  I  am  myself  the  writer  you  refer  London  ; 

*  to.  .  .  There  cannot  be  many  men,  I  believe,  who  have  a  more 


i868. 


*  humble  veneration  for  the  New  Testament,  or  a  more  profound 

*  conviction  of  its  all- sufficiency,  than  I  have.    If  I  am  ever  (as  Letter  to  a 

*  you  tell  me  I  am)  mistaken  on  this  subject,  it  is  because  I  dis-  ^JfifsS*^" 

*  countenance  all  obtrusive  professions  of  and  tradings  in  religion, 

*  as  one  of  the  main  causes  why  real  Christianity  has  been  retarded 

*  in  this  world ;  and  because  my  observation  of  life  induces  me  to 

*  hold  in  unspeakable  dread  and  horror,  those  unseemly  squabbles 

*  about  the  letter  which  drive  the  spirit  out  of  hundreds  of  thou- 

*  sands.'  In  precisely  similar  tone,  to  a  reader  of  Edwin  Drood 
(Mr.  J.  M.  Makeham),  who  had  pointed  out  to  him  that  his 
employment  as  a  figure  of  speech  of  a  line  from  Holy  Writ  in  his 
tenth  chapter  might  be  subject  to  misconstruction,  he  wrote  from 
Gadshill  on  Wednesday  the  eighth  of  June,  1870.    *It  would  be  xoaiayman, 

*  quite  inconceivable  to  me,  but  for  your  letter,  that  any  reasonable  187a  * 

*  reader  could  possibly  attach  a  scriptural  reference  to  that  pas- 

*  sage.  .  .  I  am  truly  shocked  to  find  that  any  reader  can  make 

*  the  mistake.    I  have  always  striven  in  my  writings  to  express 

*  veneration  for  the  life  and  lessons  of  our  Saviour ;  because  I  feel 

*  it ;  and  because  I  re-wrote  that  history  for  my  children — every 

*  one  of  whom  knew  it,  from  having  it  repeated  to  them,  long 

*  before  they  could  read,  and  almost  as  soon  as  they  could  speak. 

*  But  I  have  never  made  proclamation  of  this  from  the  house 

*  tops.'  * 

A  dislike  of  all  display  was  rooted  in  him  ;  and  his  objection 
to  posthumous  honours,  illustrated  by  the  instructions  in  his  will, 
was  very  strikingly  expressed  two  years  before  his  death,  when 
Mr.  Thomas  Fairbairn  asked  his  help  to  a  proposed  recognition 
of  Rajah  Brooke's  services  by  a  memorial  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Lg^^^^tQ 

*  I  am  very  strongly  impelled'  (24th  of  June  1868)  *to  comply  J^J;/"*"^* 

*  with  any  request  of  yours.    But  these  posthumous  honours  of 

*  committee,  subscriptions,  and  Westminster  Abbey  are  so  pro- 

*  foundly  unsatisfactory  in  my  eyes  that — plainly — I  would  rather 


*  This  letter  is  facsimile'd  in  A     Ode  to  his  Memory  written  with  feeling 
Christmas  Memorial  of  Charles  Dickens     and  spirit. 
by  A,  B.  I/ujne  ii2>']o),  containing  an 


470 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London  :  '  havc  nothing  to  do  with  them  in  any  case.  My  daughter  and 
1836-70. 

  *  her  aunt  unite  with  me  in  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Fairbaim,  and 

*  I  hope  you  will  believe  in  the  possession  of  mine  until  I  am 

*  quietly  buried  without  any  memorial  but  such  as  I  have  set  up  in 
'  my  lifetime.*  Asked  a  year  later  (August  1869)  to  say  something 
on  the  inauguration  of  Leigh  Hunt's  bust  at  his  grave  in  Kensal- 
green,  he  told  the  committee  that  he  had  a  very  strong  objection 
to  speech-making  beside  graves.  '  I  do  not  expect  or  wish  my 
'  feelings  in  this  wise  to  guide  other  men  \  still,  it  is  so  serious 

*  with  me,  and  the  idea  of  ever  being  the  subject  of  such  a 

*  ceremony  myself  is  so  repugnant  to  my  soul,  that  I  must  decline 

*  to  officiate.' 

His  aversion  to  every  form  of  what  is  called  patronage  of  lite- 
rature *  was  part  of  the  same  feeling.  A  few  months  earlier  he 
had  received  an  application  for  support  to  such  a  scheme  from  a 
person  assuming  a  title  to  which  he  had  no  pretension,  but  which 
appeared  to  sanction  the  request.  '  I  beg  to  be  excused,'  was  his 
reply,  *  from  complying  with  the  request  you  do  me  the  honour  to 
'  prefer,  simply  because  I  hold  the  opinion  that  there  is  a  great 
'  deal  too  much  patronage  in  England.    The  better  the  design, 

*  the  less  (as  I  think)  should  it  seek  such  adventitious  aid,  and  the 
'  more  composedly  should  it  rest  on  its  own  merits.'    This  was 

View  as  to    the  belief  Southey  held;  it  extended  to  the  support  by  way  of 

'patronage'  .  .  . 

of  literature,  patrouage  givcu  by  such  societies  as  the  Literary  Fund,  which 
Southey  also  strongly  resisted ;  and  it  survived  the  failure  of  the 
Guild  whereby  it  was  hoped  to  establish  a  system  of  self-help, 
under  which  men  engaged  in  literary  pursuits  might  be  as  proud 
to  receive  as  to  give.  Though  there  was  no  project  of  his  life 
into  which  he  flung  himself  with  greater  eagerness  than  the  Guild, 
it  was  not  taken  up  by  the  class  it  was  meant  to  benefit,  and  every 

*  I  may  quote  here  from  a  letter  '  allow  it  to  be  patronized,  or  tole- 

(Newcastle-on-Tyne,  5th  Sept.  1858)  *  rated,  or  treated  like  a  good  or  a  bad 

sent  me  by  the  editor  of  the  Northern  '  child.    I  am  always  animated  by  tlie 

Express.    *  The  view  you  take  of  the  '  hope  of  leaving  it  a  little  better 

*  literary  character  in  the  abstract,  or  *  understood  by  the  thoughtless  than  I 

*  of  what  it  might  and  ought  to  be,  *  found  it. ' — To  James  B.  Manson, 

*  expresses  what  I  have  striven  for  all  Esq. 

*  ihreugh  my  literary  life — never  to 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


471 


renewed  exertion  more  largely  added  to  the  failure.    There  is  no  ^3^^"°^  - 


room  in  these  pages  for  the  story,  which  will  add  its  chapter  some  ^^gj^j^^g 
day  to  the  vanity  of  human  wishes ;  but  a  passage  from  a  letter  to  ^^^^l 
Bulwer  Lytton  at  its  outset  will  be  some  measure  of  the  height 
from  which  the  writer  fell,  when  all  hope  for  what  he  had  so  set 
his  heart  upon  ceased.    *  I  do  devoutly  believe  that  this  plan, 
'  carried  by  the  support  which  I  trust  will  be  given  to  it,  will 

*  change  the  status  of  the  literary  man  in  England,  and  make  JJ^peJ^rom 

*  a  revolution  in  his  position  which  no  government,  no  power  on  ^^^o. 

*  earth  but  his  own,  could  ever  effect.    I  have  impUcit  confidence 

*  in  the  scheme — so  splendidly  begun — if  we  carry  it  out  with  a 

*  stedfast  energy.    I  have  a  strong  conviction  that  we  hold  in  our 

*  hands  the  peace  and  honour  of  men  of  letters  for  centuries  to 

'  come,  and  that  you  are  destined  to  be  their  best  and  most  Vanity  of 

human 

'  enduring  benefactor  .  .  .  Oh  what  a  procession  of  new  years  may  '^^p^^^  g 

*  walk  out  of  all  this  for  the  class  we  belong  to,  after  we  are  dust.' 

These  views  about  patronage  did  not  make  him  more  indulgent 
to  the  clamour  with  which  it  is  so  often  invoked  for  the  ridi- 
culously small.  '  You  read  that  life  of  Clare?'  he  wrote  (15th  of 
August  1865).  '  Did  you  ever  see  such  preposterous  exaggeration 
'  of  small  claims  ?  And  isn't  it  expressive,  the  perpetual  prating 
'  of  him  in  the  book  as  the  Poet  ?  So  another  Incompetent  used 
'  to  write  to  the  Literary  Fund  when  I  was  on  the  committee  : 

*  "  This  leaves  the  Poet  at  his  divine  mission  in  a  corner  of  the 
'  "  single  room.     The  Poet's  father  is  wiping  his  spectacles. 

*  "  The  Poet's  mother  is  weaving." — Yah  ! '  He  was  equally  in- 
tolerant of  every  magnificent  proposal  that  should  render  the 
literary  man  independent  of  the  bookseller,  and  he  sharply 
criticized  even  a  compromise  to  replace  the  half-profit  system  by 
one  of  royalties  on  copies  sold.  '  What  does  it  come  to  ? '  he 
remarked  of  an  ably  written  pamphlet  in  which  this  was  urged 
(loth  of  November  1866):  'what  is  the  worth  of  the  remedy 

*  after  all  ?    You  and  I  know  very  well  that  in  nine  cases  out  of 

*  ten  the  author  is  at  a  disadvantage  with  the  publisher  because  ^ 

*  the  publisher  has  capital  and  the  author  has  not.  We  know  per-  J'g^'g''^"''"' 

*  fectly  well  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  money  is  advanced  by 

*  the  pubUsher  before  the  book  is  Droducible — often,  long  before. 


472 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XL 


London : 
1836-70. 


As  to 

payment  by 
'  royalties.' 


Conduct  of 
periodicals. 


*  No  young  or  unsuccessful  author  (unless  he  were  an  amateur 

*  and  an  independent  gentleman)  would  make  a  bargain  for 
'  having  that  royalty,  to-morrow,  if  he  could  have  a  certain  sum 
'  of  money,  or  an  advance  of  money.  The  author  who  could 
'  command  that  bargain,  could  command  it  to-morrow,  or  com- 

*  mand  anything  else.  For  the  less  fortunate  or  the  less  able,  I 
'  make  bold  to  say — with  some  knowledge  of  the  subject,  as  a 

*  writer  who  made  a  publisher's  fortune  long  before  he  began  to 

*  share  in  the  real  profits  of  his  books — that  if  the  publishers  met 
'  next  week,  and  resolved  henceforth  to  make  this  royalty  bargain 

*  and  no  other,  it  would  be  an  enormous  hardship  and  misfortune 

*  because  the  authors  could  not  live  while  they  wrote.  The 
'  pamphlet  seems  to  me  just  another  example  of  the  old  philo- 

*  sophical  chess-playing,  with  human  beings  for  pieces.    "  Don't 

*  "  want  money."      Be  careful  to  be  born  with  means,  and  have 

*  "  a  banker's  account."    "  Your  publisher  will  settle  with  you,  at 

*  "  such  and  such  long  periods  according  to  the  custom  of  his 

*  "  trade,  and  you  will  settle  with  your  butcher  and  baker  weekly, 

*  "  in  the  meantime,  by  drawing  cheques  as  I  do."  "  You  must 
'  "  b  J  sure  not  to  want  money,  and  then  I  have  worked  it  out  for 
'  "  you  splendidly."  ' 

Less  has  been  said  in  this  work  than  might  perhaps  have  been 
wished,  of  the  way  in  which  his  editorship  of  Household  Words 
and  of  All  the  Year  Round  was  discharged.  It  was  distinguished 
above  all  by  liberality ;  and  a  scrupulous  consideration  and  deli- 
cacy, evinced  by  him  to  all  his  contributors,  was  part  of  the  esteem 
in  which  he  held  literature  itself.  It  was  said  in  a  newspaper 
after  his  death,  evidently  by  one  of  his  contributors,  that  he 
always  brought  the  best  out  of  a  man  by  encouragement  and 
appreciation ;  that  he  liked  his  writers  to  feel  unfettered ;  and  that 
his  last  reply  to  a  proposition  for  a  series  of  articles  had  been : 
'  Whatever  you  see  your  way  to,  I  will  see  mine  to,  and  we  know 

*  and  understand  each  other  well  enough  to  make  the  best  of 

*  these  conditions.'  Yet  the  strong  feeling  of  personal  responsi- 
bility was  always  present  in  his  conduct  of  both  journals ;  and 
varied  as  the  contents  of  a  number  might  be,  and  widely  apart  the 
writers,  a  certain  individuality  of  his  own  was  never  absent.  He 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


473 


took  immense  pains  (as  indeed  was  his  habit  about  everything)  Lo^ndon  : 
with  numbers  in  which  he  had  written  nothing;  would  often   

Treatment 

accept  a  paper  from  a  young  or  unhandy  contributor,  because  of 
some  single  notion  in  it  which  he  thought  it  worth  rewriting  for ; 
and  in  this  way,  or  by  helping  generally  to  give  strength  and 
attractiveness  to  the  work  of  others,  he  grudged  no  trouble.*  *  I 
*  have  had  a  story '  he  wrote  (22nd  of  June  1856)  *  to  hack  and 
'  hew  into  some  form  for  Household  Words  this  morning,  which 


*  By  way  of  instance  I  subjoin  an 
amusing  insertion  made  by  him  in  an 
otherwise  indifferently  written  paper 
descriptive  of  the  typical  Englishman 
on  the  foreign  stage,  which  gives  in 
more  comic  detail  experiences  of  his 
own  already  partly  submitted  to  the 
reader  (i.  372-3).    *  In  a  pretty  piece 

*  at  the  Gymnase  in  Paris,  where  the 

*  prime  minister  of  England  unfortu- 
'  nately  ruined  himself  by  speculating 

*  in  railway  shares,  a  thorough-going 

*  English  servant  appeared  under  that 

*  thorough-going  English  name  Tom 

*  Bob — the  honest  fellow  having  been 

*  christened  Tom,  and  bom  the  lawful 

*  son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bob.    In  an 

*  Italian  adaptation  of  Dumas'  pre- 

*  posterous  play  of  Kean,  which  we 

*  once  saw  at  the  great  theatre  of 

*  Genoa,  the  curtain  rose  upon  that 

*  celebrated  tragedian,  drunk  and  fast 

*  asleep  in  a  chair,  attired  in  a  dark 

*  blue  blouse  fastened  round  the  waist 

*  with  a  broad  belt  and  a  most  pro- 
'  digious  buckle,  and  wearing  a  dark 

*  red  hat  of  the  sugar-loaf  shape,  nearly 

*  three  feet  high.    He  bore  in  his  hand 

*  a  champagne-bottle,  with  the  label 

*  Rhum,  in  large  capital  letters,  care- 

*  fully  turned  towards  the  audience  ; 

*  and  two  or  three  dozen  of  the  same 

*  popular  liquor,  which  we  are  nation- 
'  ally  accustomed  to  drink  neat  as 

*  imported,  by  the  half  gallon,  orna- 
'  mented  the  floor  of  the  apartment. 

*  Every  frequenter  of  the  Coal  Hole 
'  Tavern  in  the  Strand,  on  that  occa- 
I 


*  Every  English  lady,  presented  on  the 
'  stage  in  Italy,  wears  a  green  veil ; 

*  and  almost  every  such  specimen  of 

*  our  fair   countrywomen   carries  a 

*  bright  red  reticule,  made  in  the  form 

*  of  a  monstrous  heart.    "We  do  not 

*  remember  to  have  ever  seen  an  Eng- 

*  lishman  on  the  Italian  stage,  or  in 
'  the  Italian  circus,  without  a  stomach 

*  like  Daniel  Lambert,  an  immense 
'  shirt-frill,  and  a  bunch  of  watch- 

*  seals  each  several  times  larger  than 

*  his  watch,  though  the  watch  itself 

*  was  an  impossible  engine.    And  we  Foreign 

*  have  rarely  beheld  this  mimic  Eng-  picture  of 

*  lishman,  without  seeing  present,  then  people.' 

*  and  there,  a  score  of  real  Englishmen 
'  sufficiently  characteristic  and  unlike 

*  the  rest  of  the  audience,  to  whom  he 

*  bore  no  shadow  of  resemblance.' 
These  views  as  to  English  people  and 
society,  of  which  Count  d'Orsay  used 
always  to  say  that  an  average  French- 
man knew  about  as  much  as  he  knew 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon,  mayf 
receive  amusing  addition  from  one  o 
Dickens's  letters  during  his  last  visit 
to  France ;  which  enclosed  a  cleverly 
written  Paris  journal  containing  essays 
on  English  manners.  In  one  of  these 
the  writer  remarked  that  he  had  heard 
of  the  venality  of  English  politicians, 
but  could  not  have  supposed  it  to  be 
so  shameless  as  it  is,  for,  when  he 
went  to  the  House  of  Commons,  he 
heard  them  call  out  *  Places  !  Places  !' 
'  Give  us  Places  I '  when  the  Minister 
entered  1 


474 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London  :  *  has  taken  itie  four  hours  of  close  attention.  And  I  am  perfectly 
1836-70. 

 *  addled  by  its  horrible  want  of  continuity  after  all,  and  the 

*  dreadful  spectacle  I  have  made  of  the  proofs — which  look  like  an 

*  inky  fishing-net.'  A  few  lines  from  another  letter  will  show  the 
difficulties  in  which  he  was  often  involved  by  the  plan  he  adopted 

Editorial  for  Christmas  numbers,  of  putting  within  a  framework  by  himself 
a  number  of  stories  by  separate  writers  to  whom  the  leading 
notion  had  before  been  severally  sent.  'As  yet'  (25th  of  No- 
vember 1859),  'not  a  story  has  come  to  me  in  the  least  belonging 
'  to  the  idea  (the  simplest  in  the  world ;  which  I  myself  described 
'  in  writing,  in  the  most  elaborate  manner)  \  and  every  one  of  them 
'  turns,  by  a  strange  fatality,  on  a  criminal  trial ! '  It  had  all  to  be 
set  right  by  him,  and  editorship  on  such  terms  was  not  a  sinecure, 
and  It  had  its  pleasures  as  well  as  pains,  however,  and  the  greatest 

pleasures.  when  hc  fancicd  he  could  descry  unusual  merit  in  any  writer. 

A  letter  will  give  one  instance  for  illustration  of  many ;  the  lady 
to  whom  it  was  addressed,  admired  under  her  assumed  name  of 
Holme  Lee,  having  placed  it  at  my  disposal.  (Folkestone  :  14th 
of  August  1855.)  'I  read  your  tale  with  the  strongest  emotion, 
'  and  with  a  very  exalted  admiration  of  the  great  power  displayed 
'  in  it.  Both  in  severity  and  tenderness  I  thought  it  masterly.  It 
'  moved  me  more  than  I  can  express  to  you.  I  wrote  to  Mr. 
'  Wills  that  it  had  completely  unsettled  me  for  the  day,  and  that 

*  by  whomsoever  it  was  written,  I  felt  the  highest  respect  for  the 
'  mind  that  had  produced  it.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  been 
'  for  some  days  at  work  upon  a  character  externally  like  the  Aunt. 
'  And  it  was  very  strange  to  me  indeed  to  observe  how  the  two 
*■  people  seemed  to  be  near  to  one  another  at  first,  and  then 

*  turned  off  on  their  own  ways  so  wide  asunder.    I  told  Mr.  Wills 

*  that  I  was  not  sure  whether  I  could  have  prevailed  upon  myself 

*  to  present  to  a  large  audience  the  terrible  consideration  of  here- 
'  ditary  madness,  when  it  was  reasonably  probable  that  there  must 

*  be  many — or  some — among  them  whom  it  would  awfully,  be- 

*  cause  personally,  address.    But  I  was  not  obliged  to  ask  myself 

*  the  question,  inasmuch  as  the  length  of  the  story  rendered  it 
'  unavailable  for  Household  Words.    I  speak  of  its  length  in 

*  reference  to  that  publication  only ;  relatively  to  what  is  told  in 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


475 


*  it,  I  would  not  spare  a  page  of  your  manuscript.    Experience  London: 

1836-70. 

*  shows  me  that  a  story  in  four  portions  is  best  suited  to  the  

J  ^  ^     Rule  in 

*  peculiar  requirements  of  such  a  journal,  and  I  assure  you  it  will  Household 

Words  : 

*  be  an  uncommon  satisfaction  to  me  if  this  correspondence  should 
'  lead  to  your  enrolment  among  its  contributors.    But  my  strong 

*  and  sincere  conviction  of  the  vigour  and  pathos  of  this  beautiful 
'  tale,  is  quite  apart  from,  and  not  to  be  influenced  by,  any  ulterior 

*  results.    You  had  no  existence  to  me  when  I  read  it.  The 

*  actions  and  sufferings  of  the  characters  affected  me  by  their  own 

*  force  and  truth,  and  left  a  profound  impression  on  me.'*  The 
experience  there  mentioned  did  not  prevent  him  from  admitting 

into  his  later  periodical,  All  the  Year  Rounds  longer  serial  stories,  ^^fpf^ 
published  with  the  names  of  known  writers :  and  to  his  own  inter-  ^^"^^  , 

^  ^  '  Routid. 

ference  with  these  he  properly  placed  limits.    *  When  one  of  my 

*  literary  brothers  does  me  the  honour  to  undertake  such  a  task,  I 

*  hold  that  he  executes  it  on  his  own  personal  responsibility/-,  and 

*  for  the  sustainment  of  his  own  reputation ;  and  1  do  not  con- 
'  sider  myself  at  liberty  to  exercise  that  control  over  his  text  which 

*  I  claim  as  to  other  contributions.'  Nor  had  he  any  greater 
pleasure,  even  in  these  cases,  than  to  help  younger  novelists  to 
popularity.    *  You  asked  me  about  new  writers  last  night.    If  you 

*  will  read  Kissing  the  Rod^  a  book  I  have  read  to-day,  you  will 

*  not  find  it  hard  to  take  an  interest  in  the  author  of  such  a  book.' 

That  was  Mr.  Edmund  Yates,  in  whose  literary  successes  he  took  ^^^'^ 
the  greatest  interest  himself,  and  with  whom  he  continued  to  the  ^  '^^^eraid 
last  an  intimate  personal  intercourse  which  had  dated  from  kind- 
ness shown  at  a  very  trying  time.    *  I  think,'  he  wrote  of  another 
of  his  contributors,  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  for  whom  he  had  also 
much  personal  liking,  and  of  whose  powers  he  thought  highly, 

*  you  will  find  Fatal  Zero  a  very  curious  bit  of  mental  development, 

*  deepening  as  the  story  goes  on  into  a  picture  not  more  startling 

*  than  true'  My  mention  of  these  pleasures  of  editorship  shall 
close  with  what  I  think  to  him  was  the  greatest.  He  gave  to  the 
world,  while  yet  the  name  of  the  writer  was  unknown  to  him,  the 
pure  and  pathetic  verse  of  Adelaide  Procter.    *  In  the  spring  of 

*  The  letter  is  addressed  to  Miss  Harriet  Parr,  whose  book  called  Gilbert 
M^scngei-  is  the  tale  referred  to. 


476 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London    <  the  year  1853  I  observed  a  short  poem  among  the  proffered 
1836-  70. 

 ;        *  contributions,  very  different,  as  I  thought,  from  the  shoal  of 

Procter's  *  verses  perpetually  setting  through  the  office  of  such  a  periodical.'* 
The  contributions  had  been  large  and  frequent  under  an  assumed 
name,  when  at  Christmas  1854  he  discovered  that  Miss  Mary 
Berwick  was  the  daughter  of  his  old  and  dear  friend,  Barry 
Cornwall. 

But  periodical  writing  is  not  without  its  drawbacks,  and  its 
effect  on  Dickens,  who  engaged  in  it  largely  from  time  to  time, 
was  observable  in  the  increased  impatience  of  allusion  to  national 
institutions  and  conventional  distinctions  to  be  found  in  his  later 
books.  Party  divisions  he  cared  for  less  and  less  as  life  moved 
on ;  but  the  decisive,  peremptory,  dogmatic  style,  into  which  a 
habit  of  rapid  remark  on  topics  of  the  day  will  betray  the  most 
candid  and  considerate  commentator,  displayed  its  influence, 
perhaps  not  always  consciously  to  himself,  in  the  underlying  tone 
of  bitterness  that  runs  through  the  books  which  followed  Copper- 
Tone  in  field.  The  resentment  against  remediable  wrongs  is  as  praiseworthy 
later  books,  m  them  as  in  the  earlier  tales ;  but  the  exposure  of  Chancery 
abuses,  administrative  incompetence,  politico-economic  short- 
comings, and  social  flunkeyism,  in  Bltak  House^  Little  Dorrit, 
Hard  Times^  and  Our  Mutual  Friend^  would  not  have  been  made 
less  odious  by  the  cheerier  tone  that  had  struck  with  much 
sharper  effect  at  prison  abuses,  parish  wrongs,  Yorkshire  schools, 
and  hypocritical  humbug,  in  Pickwick^  Oliver  Twisty  Nicklebyy  and 
Chuzzlewit.  It  will  be  remembered  of  him  always  that  he  desired 
to  set  right  what  was  wrong,  that  he  held  no  abuse  to  be  unim- 
provable, that  he  left  none  of  the  evils  named  exactly  as  he  found 
them,  and  that  to  influences  drawn  from  his  writings  were  due  not 
a  few  of  the  salutary  changes  which  marked  the  age  in  which  he 
lived ;  but  anger  does  not  improve  satire,  and  it  gave  latterly,  from 
the  causes  named,  too  aggressive  a  form  to  what,  after  all,  was 
but  a  very  wholesome  hatred  of  the  cant  that  everything  English 
is  perfect,  and  that  to  call  a  thing  ««English  is  to  doom  it  to 
abhorred  extinction. 

*  See  the  introductory  memoir  from    of  the  popular  and  delightful  Legends 
his  pen  now  prefixed  to  every  edition     and  Lyrics. 


§  III.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


477 


*  I  have  got  an  idea  for  occasional  papers  in  Household  Words  London  : 

*  called  the  Member  for  Nowhere.    They  will  contain  an  account  ~~ — ; — ~ 

Member 

'  of  his  views,  votes,  and  speeches ;  and  I  think  of  starting  with  \ 

*  his  speeches  on  the  Sunday  question.    He  is  a  member  of  the 

*  Government  of  course.   The  moment  they  found  such  a  member 

*  in  the  House,  they  felt  that  he  must  be  dragged  (by  force,  if 

*  necessary)  into  the  Cabinet.*  *  I  give  it  up  reluctantly,'  he  wrote 
afterwards,  *and  with  it  my  hope  to  have  made  every  man  in 
'  England  feel  something  of  the  contempt  for  the  House  of 
*■  Commons  that  I  have.  We  shall  never  begin  to  do  anything 
'  until  the  sentiment  is  universal.'  That  was  in  x\ugust  1854 ;  and 
the  break-down  in  the  Crimea  that  winter  much  embittered  his 
radicalism.  *  I  am  hourly  strengthened  in  my  old  beUef,'  he  wrote 
(3rd  of  February  1855),  *  that  our  political  aristocracy  and  our  tuft- 

*  hunting  are  the  death  of  England.  In  all  this  business  I  don't 
'  see  a  gleam  of  hope.    As  to  the  popular  spirit,  it  has  come  to  be 

*  so  entirely  separated  from  the  Parliament  and  Government,  and 

*  so  perfectly  apathetic  about  them  both,  that  I  seriously  think  it  a 

*  most  portentous  sign.'  A  couple  of  months  later :  *  I  have  rather 

*  a  bright  idea,  I  think,  for  Household  Words  this  morning  :  a  fine 

*  little  bit  of  satire  :  an  account  of  an  Arabic  MS.  lately  discovered  '  Thousand 

*  and  One 

'  very  like  the  Arabian  Nights — called  the  Thousand  and  One  *  Hum- 
'  Humbugs.  With  new  versions  of  the  best  known  stories.'  This 
also  had  to  be  given  up,  and  is  only  mentioned  as  another  illustra- 
tion of  his  political  discontents  and  of  their  connection  with  his 
journal- work.  The  influence  from  his  early  hfe  which  uncon- 
sciously strengthened  them  in  certain  social  directions  has  been 
hinted  at,  and  of  his  absolute  sincerity  in  the  matter  there  can  be 
no  doubt  The  mistakes  of  Dickens  were  never  such  as  to  cast  a 
shade  on  his  integrity.  What  he  said  with  too  much  bitterness,  in 
his  heart  he  beUeved ;  and  had,  alas  !  too  much  ground  for  be- 
lieving. *A  country'  he  wrote  (27th  of  April  1855)  'which  is 
'  discovered  to  be  in  this  tremendous  condition  as  to  its  war 
'  affairs  ;  with  an  enormous  black  cloud  of  poverty  in  every  town  Grave 

*  which  is  spreading  and  deepening  every  hour,  and  not  one  man  d°scon^ 

*  in  two  thousand  knowing  anything  about,  or  even  believing  in, 

*  its  existence ;  with  a  non-working  aristocracy,  and  a  silent  par- 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  XI. 


^^1869^"   *  everybody  for  himself  and  nobody  for  the  rest; 

*  this  is  the  prospect,  and  I  think  it  a  very  deplorable  one/ 
Admirably  did  he  say,  of  a  notorious  enquiry  at  that  time  :  '  O 

*  what  a  fine  aspect  of  political  economy  it  is,  that  the  noble  pro- 

*  fessors  of  the  science  on  the  adulteration  committee  should  have 

*  tried  to  make  Adulteration  a  question  of  Supply  and  Demand  1 

*  We  shall  never  get  to  the  Millennium,  sir,  by  the  rounds  of  that 

*  ladder ;  and  I,  for  one,  won't  hold  by  the  skirts  of  that  Great 
'  Mogul  of  impostors,  Master  M'CuUoch  ! '  Again  he  wrote  (30th 
of  September  1855)  :  'I  really  am  serious  in  thinking — and  I 
'  have  given  as  painful  consideration  to  the  subject  as  a  man  with 
'  children  to  live  and  suffer  after  him  can  honestly  give  to  it — that 
'  representative  government  is  become  altogether  a  failure  with  us, 

*  that  the  English  gentilities  and  subserviences  render  the  people 

*  unfit  for  it,  and  that  the  whole  thing  has  broken  down  since  that 
'  great  seventeenth-century  time,  and  has  no  hope  in  it.' 

No  thought      With  the  good  sense  that  still  overruled  all  his  farthest  extremes 

of  parha- 

himsefr  Opinion  he  yet  never  thought  of  parliament  for  himself.  He 
could  not  mend  matters,  and  for  him  it  would  have  been  a  false 
position.  The  people  of  the  town  of  Reading  and  others  applied  to 
him  during  the  first  half  of  his  life,  and  in  the  last  half  some  of  the 
Metropolitan  constituencies.  To  one  of  the  latter  a  reply  is  before 
me  in  which  he  says :  *  I  declare  that  as  to  all  matters  on  the 
'  face  of  this  teeming  earth,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  House  of 
'  Commons  and  Parliament  altogether  is  become  just  the  dreariest 

*  failure  and  nuisance  that  ever  bothered  this  much-bothered  world.' 
To  a  private  enquiry  of  apparently  about  the  same  date  he  replied  : 

*  I  have  thoroughly  satisfied  myself,  having  often  had  occasion  to 

*  consider  the  question,  that  I  can  be  far  more  usefully  and  inde- 

*  pendently  employed  in  my  chosen  sphere  of  action  than  1  could 

*  hope  to  be  in  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  I  believe  that  no 

*  consideration  would  induce  me  to  become  a  member  of  that 

*  extraordinary  assembly.'  Finally,  upon  a  reported  discussion  in 
Finsbury  whether  or  not  he  should  be  invited  to  sit  for  that 
borough,  he  promptly  wrote  (November  1861) :  *  It  may  save  some 
'  trouble  if  you  will  kindly  confirm  a  sensible  gentleman  who 

*  doubted  at  that  meeting  whether  I  was  quite  the  man  for  Fins- 


§  Ill.j 


Personal  Characteristics, 


479 


*  bury.    I  am  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  ;  for  I  believe  nothing  London  : 

1869. 

*  would  induce  me  to  offer  myself  as  a  parliamentary  representative  ~ 

*  of  that  place,  or  of  any  other  under  the  sun.*  The  only  direct 
attempt  to  join  a  political  agitation  was  his  speech  at  Drury-lane 
for  administrative  reform,  and  he  never  repeated  it.  But  every 
movement  for  practical  social  reforms,  to  obtain  more  efficient 
sanitary  legislation,  to  get  the  best  compulsory  education  practi- 
cable for  the  poor,  and  to  better  the  condition  of  labouring  people, 

he  assisted  earnestly  to  his  last  hour :  and  the  readiness  with  which  Reforms  he 

•'  took  most 

he  took  the  chair  at  meetings  having  such  objects  in  view,  the  interest  in. 
help  he  gave  to  important  societies  working  in  beneficent  ways 
for  themselves  or  the  community,  and  the  power  and  attractiveness 
of  his  oratory,  made  him  one  of  the  forces  of  the  time.  His 
speeches  derived  singular  charm  from  the  buoyancy  of  his  perfect 
self-possession,  and  to  this  he  added  the  advantages  of  a  person 
and  manner  which  had  become  as  familiar  and  as  popular  as  his 
books.  The  most  miscellaneous  assemblages  listened  to  him  as 
to  a  personal  friend. 

Two  incidents  at  the  close  of  his  life  will  show  what  upon  these 
matters  his  latest  opinions  were.  At  the  great  Liverpool  dinner 
after  his  country  readings  in  i860,  over  which  Lord  Dufferin  Liverpoo\ 

dinner  in 

eloquently  presided,  he  replied  to  a  remonstrance  from  Lord  ^^^9- 
Houghton  against  his  objection  to  entering  public  life,*  that  when 
he  took  literature  for  his  profession  he  intended  it  to  be  his  sole 
profession ;  that  at  that  time  it  did  not  appear  to  him  to  be  so 
well  understood  in  England,  as  in  some  other  countries,  that 

*  On     this     remonstrance     and  *  be  said  in  favour  of  this  view,  but  we 

Dickens's  reply  the  Titnes  had  a  lead-  '  are  inclined  to  doubt  if  Mr.  Dickens 

ing  article  of  which  the  closing  sentences  *  himself  would  gain  anything  by  a 

find  fitting  place  in  his  biography.  '  If  *  Life  Peerage.    Mr.  Dickens  is  pre- 

*  there  be  anything  in  Lord  Russell's  *  eminently  a  writer  of  the  people  and 

*  theory  that  Life  Peerages  are  wanted  *  for  the  people.    To  our  thinking,  he 

*  specially  to  represent  those  forms  of  *  is  far  better  suited  for  the  part  of  the 
'national  eminence  which  cannot  '"Great  Commoner"  of  English 
'  otherwise  find  fitting  representation,  *  fiction  than  for  even  a  Life  Peerage. 

*  it  might  be  urged,  for  the  reasons  we  '  To  turn  Charles  Dickens  into  Lord 

*  have  before  mentioned,  that  a  Life  *  Dickens  would  be  much  the  same 

*  Peerage  is  due  to  the  most  truly  *  mistake  in  literature  that  it  was  in 

*  national  representative  of  one  impor-  *  politics  to  turn  William  Pitt  into 

*  tant  department  of  modern  English  *  Lord  Chatham.* 

*  literature.  Something  may  no  doubt 


480 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  XL 


London ; 
1870. 


Reply  to  a 
remon- 
strance. 


Tribute 
to  Lord 
Russell. 


The  people 
governing 
and  the 
People 
governed. 


literature  was  a  dignified  calling  by  which  any  man  might  stand 
or  fall ;  and  he  resolved  that  in  his  person  at  least  it  should 
stand  *  by  itself,  of  itself,  and  for  itself ; '  a  bargain  which  '  no 

*  consideration  on  earth  would  now  induce  him  to  break.'  Here 
however  he  probably  failed  to  see  the  entire  meaning  of  Lord 
Houghton's  regret,  which  would  seem  to  have  been  meant  to  say, 
in  more  polite  form,  that  to  have  taken  some  part  in  public  affairs 
might  have  shown  him  the  difficulty  in  a  free  state  of  providing 
remedies  very  swiftly  for  evils  of  long  growth.  A  half  reproach 
from  the  same  quarter  for  alleged  unkindly  sentiments  to  the 
House  of  Lords,  he  repelled  with  vehement  warmth  ;  insisting  on 
his  great  regard  for  individual  members,  and  declaring  that  there 
was  no  man  in  England  he  respected  more  in  his  pubHc  capacity, 
loved  more  in  his  private  capacity,  or  from  whom  he  had  received 
more  remarkable  proofs  of  his  honour  and  love  of  literature,  than 
Lord  Russell.*  In  Birmingham  shortly  after,  discoursing  on 
education  to  the  members  of  the  Midland  Institute,  he  told  them 
they  should  value  self-improvement,  not  because  it  led  to  fortune 
but  because  it  was  good  and  right  in  itself ;  counselled  them  in 
regard  to  it  that  Genius  was  not  worth  half  so  much  as  Attention, 
or  the  art  of  taking  an  immense  deal  of  pains,  which  he  declared 
to  be,  in  every  study  and  pursuit,  the  one  sole,  safe,  certain, 
remunerative  quality ;  and  summed  up  briefly  his  political  belief. 

*  My  faith  in  the  people  governing  is,  on  the  whole,  infinitesimal;  my 

*  faith  in  the  People  governed  is,  on  the  whole,  illimitable.'  This 
he  afterwards  (January  1870)  explained  to  mean  that  he  had  very 
litde  confidence  in  the  people  who  govern  us  with  a  small  p '), 
and  very  great  confidence  in  the  People  whom  they  govern  ('with  a 
'  large  P ')  '  My  confession  being  shortly  and  elliptically  stated,  was, 

*  with  no  evil  intention  I  am  absolutely  sure,  in  some  quarters 

public  allusions,  Dickens  described 
him  as  a  statesman  of  whom  opponents 
and  friends  alike  felt  sure  that  he 
would  rise  to  the  level  of  every  occa- 
sion, however  exalted  ;  and  compared 
him  to  the  seal  of  Solomon  in  the  old 
Arabian  story  inclosing  in  a  not  very 
large  casket  the  soul  of  a  giant 


*  One  of  the  many  repetitions  of  the 
same  opinion  in  his  letters  may  be 
given.  *  Lord  John's  note '  (Septem- 
ber 1853)  'confirms  me  in  an  old 
'  impression  that  he  is  worth  a  score 
'  of  official  men ;  and  has  more  gene- 
'  rosity  in  his  little  finger  than  a 
'  Government  usually  has  in  its  whole 
'  corporation.'      In  another  of  his 


§  III.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


*  inversely  explained'    He  added  that  his  political  opinions  had  London: 

already  been  not  obscurely  stated  in  an  *  idle  book  or  two '  j  and  ^ 

he  reminded  his  hearers  that  he  was  the  inventor  '  of  a  certain 

*  fiction  called  the  Circumlocution  Office,  said  to  be  very  extrava- 

*  gant,  but  which  I  do  see  rather  frequently  quoted  as  if  there 

*  were  grains  of  truth  at  the  bottom  of  it.'  It  may  nevertheless 
be  suspected,  with  some  confidence,  that  the  construction  of  his 
real  meaning  was  not  far  wrong  which  assumed  it  as  the  condition 
precedent  to  his  illimitable  faith,  that  the  people,  even  with  the 
big  P,  should  be  'governed.'  It  was  his  constant  complaint  that, 
being  much  in  want  of  government,  they  had  only  sham 
governors  :  and  he  had  returned  from  his  second  American  visit,  Last  and 

°  '  '  first  Ame- 

as  he  came  back  from  his  first,  indisposed  to  believe  that  the  rjcan  exp^ 

nence. 

political  problem  had  been  solved  in  the  land  of  the  free.  From 
the  pages  of  his  last  book,  the  bitterness  of  allusion  so  frequent 
in  the  books  just  named  was  absent  altogether ;  and  his  old  un- 
altered wish  to  better  what  was  bad  in  English  institutions,  carried 
with  it  no  desire  to  replace  them  by  new  ones. 

In  a  memoir  published  shortly  after  his  death^  there  appeared 
this  statement    *  For  many  years  past  Her  Majesty  the  Queen 

*  has  taken  the  liveliest  interest  in  Mr.  Dickens's  literary  labours, 

*  and  has  frequently  expressed  a  desire  for  an  interview  with 

*  him.  .  .  This  interview  took  place  on  the  9th  of  April,  when 

*  he  received  her  commands  to  attend  her  at  Buckingham  Palace, 

*  and  was  introduced  by  his  friend  Mr.  Arthur  Helps,  the  clerk  of 

*  the  Privy  Council.  .  .  Since  our  author's  decease  the  journal 

*  with  which  he  was  formerly  connected  has  said  :  "  The  Queen  Alleged 

*  was  ready  to  confer  any  distinction  which  Mr.  Dickens's  th^QueeU! 

*  "  known  views  and  tastes  would  permit  him  to  accept,  and  after 

*  "  more  than  one  title  of  honour  had  been  declined,  Her  Majesty 

*  "  desired  that  he  would,  at  least,  accept  a  place  in  her  Privy 
Council." '    As  nothing  is  too  absurd  *  for  belief,  it  will  not 


*  In  a  memoir  by  Dr.  Shelton  will  be  strictly  accurate  to  say,  that, 
McKenzie  which  has  had  circulation  excepting  the  part  of  its  closing  aver- 
in  America,  there  is  given  the  follow-  ment  which  describes  Dickens  sending 
ing  statement,  taken  doubtless  from  a  copy  of  his  works  to  her  Majesty  by 
publications  at  the  time,  of  which  it  her  own  desire,  there  is  in  it  not  a 

VOL.    II.  \  \ 


482 


7 he  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  XI. 


London ; 
1870. 


be  superfluous  to  say  that  Dickens  knew  of  no  such  desire  on  her 
Majesty's  part ;  and  though  all  the  probabilities  are  on  the  side 
of  his  unwillingness  to  accept  any  title  or  place  of  honour,  cer- 
tainly none  was  offered  to  him. 

It  had  been  hoped  to  obtain  her  Majesty's  name  for  the  Jerrold 
performances  in  1857,  but,  being  a  public  effort  in  behalf  of  an 
individual,  assent  would  have  involved  *  either  perpetual  com- 
'  pliance  or  the  giving  of  perpetual  offence.'  Her  Majesty  how- 
Stion  wkh  ^'^^^  ^^^^  through  Colonel  Phipps,  a  request  to  Dickens  that 
in  185^"^ ''^^^  he  would  select  a  room  in  the  palace,  do  what  he  would  with  it, 
and  let  her  see  the  play  there.  *  I  said  to  Col.  Phipps  thereupon ' 
(21st  of  June  1857)  'that  the  idea  was  not  quite  new  to  me; 
*  that  I  did  not  feel  easy  as  to  the  social  position  of  my 


Rigmarole,    single  word  of  truth.     '  Early  in  1 870 
'  the  Queen  presented  a  copy  of  her 

*  book  upon  the  Highlands  to  Mr. 

*  Dickens,  with  the  modest  autogra- 
'  phic  inscription,  from  the  humblest 
'  "  to  the  most  distinguished  author 

*  **  of  England."    This  was  meant  to 

*  be  complimentary,  and  was  accepted 

*  as  such  by  Mr.  Dickens,  who  ac- 

*  knowledged  it  in  a  manly,  courteous 

*  letter.    Soon  after,  Queen  Victoria 
wrote  to  him,  requesting  that  he 

*  would  do  her  the  favour  of  paying 
'  her  a  visit  at  Windsor.  He  accepted, 

*  and  passed  a  day,  very  pleasantly,  in 
'  his  Sovereign's  society.    It  is  said 

*  that  they  were  mutually  pleased,  that 

*  Mr.  Dickens  caught  the  royal  lady's 

*  particular  humour,  that  they  chatted 
'  together  in  a  very  friendly  manner, 

*  that  the  Queen  was  never  tired  of 
'  asking  questions  about  certain  cha- 

*  racters  in  his  books,  that  they  had 
'  almost  a  tete-a-tete  luncheon,  and 
'  that,  ere  he  departed,  the  Queen 
'  pressed  him  to  accept  a  baronetcy  (a 
'  title  which  descends  to  the  eldest 

*  son),  and  that,  on  his  declining,  she 

*  said,  **  At  least,  Mr.  Dickens,  let  me 

*  "  have  the  gratification  of  making 
'  "  you  one  of  my  Privy  Council.'* 

*  This,  which  gives  the  personal  title 


'  of  *'  Right  Honorable,"  he  also  de- 
'  clined — nor,    indeed,    did  Charles 

*  Dickens  require  a  title  to  give  him 

*  celebrity.  The  Queen  and  the  author 
'  parted,  well  pleased  with  each  other. 
'  The   newspapers  reported  that  a 

*  peerage  had  been  offered  and  de- 

*  clined — but  even  newspapers  are  not 
^  invariably  correct.  Mr.  Dickens  pre- 
'  sented  his  Royal  Mistress  with  a 
'  handsome  set  of  all  his  works,  and, 
'  on  the  very  morning  of  his  death,  a 
'  letter  reached  Gad's  Hill,  written  by 
'  Mr.  Arthur  Helps,  by  her  desire, 

*  acknowledging  the  present,  and  de- 
'  scribing  the  exact  position  the  books 
'  occupied  at  Balmoral — so  placed  that 
'  she  could  see  them  before  her  when 
'  occupying  the  usual  seat  in  her  sit- 
'  ting-room.  When  this  letter  arrived, 

*  Mr.  Dickens  was  still  alive,  but 
'  wholly  unconscious.  What  to  him, 
'  at  that  time,  was  the  courtesy  of  an 

*  earthly  sovereign  ?'  I  repeat  that 
the  only  morsel  of  truth  in  all  this 
rigmarole  is  that  the  books  were  sent 
by  Dickens,  and  acknowledged  by  Mr. 
Helps  at  the  Queen's  desire.  The 
letter  did  not  arrive  on  the  day  of  his 
death,  the  9th  of  June,  but  was  dated 
from  Balmoral  on  that  day. 


§  in.]  Personal  Cliaracteristics. 


483 


*  daughters,  &c  at  a  Court  under  those  circumstances  ;  and  that  London  : 

1870. 

*  I  would  beg  her  Majesty  to  excuse  me,  if  any  other  way  of  her  

*  seeing  the  play  could  be  devised.    To  this  Phipps  said  he  had 

*  not  thought  of  the  objection,  but  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  I 

*  was  right.    I  then  proposed  that  the  Queen  should  come  to  the 

*  Gallery  of  Illustration  a  week  before  the  subscription  night,  and 

*  should  have  the  room  entirely  at  her  own  disposal,  and  should 
'  invite  her  own  company.    This,  with  the  good  sense  that  seems 

*  to  accompany  her  good  nature  on  all  occasions,  she  resolved 
'  within  a  few  hours  to  do.'  The  effect  of  the  performance  was  a 
great  gratification.    *  My  gracious  sovereign'  (5th  of  July  1857) 

*  was  so  pleased  that  she  sent  round  begging  me  to  go  and  see 

*  her  and  accept  her  thanks.    I  replied  that  I  was  in  my  Farce 

*  dress,  and  must  beg  to  be  excused.    Whereupon  she  sent  again, 

*  saying  that  the  dress  "  could  not  be  so  ridiculous  as  that,"  and 

*  repeating  the  request.    I  sent  my  duty  in  reply,  but  again  hoped 

*  her  Majesty  would  have  the  kindness  to  excuse  my  presenting 

*  myself  in  a  costume  and  appearance  that  were  not  my  own.  I 

*  was  mighty  glad  to  think,  when  I  woke  this  morning,  that  I  had 

*  carried  the  point.' 

The  opportunity  of  presenting  himself  in  his  own  costume  did 
not  arrive  till  the  year  of  his  death,  another  effort  meanwhile 
made  having  proved  also  unsuccessful.  '  I  was  put  into  a  state 
'  of  much  perplexity  on  Sunday'  (30th  of  March  1858).    *  I  don't 

*  know  who  had  spoken  to  my  informant,  but  it  seems  that  the 

*  Queen  is  bent  upon  hearing  the  Carol  read,  and  has  expressed  Queen's 

*  her  desire  to  bring  it  about  without  offence ;  hesitating  about 

*  the  manner  of  it,  in  consequence  of  my  having  begged  to  be  reld. ' 

*  excused  from  going  to  her  when  she  sent  for  me  after  the  ^^^^ 

*  Frozen  Deep.    I  parried  the  thing  as  well  as  I  could  ;  but  being 

*  asked  to  be  prepared  with  a  considerate  and  obliging  answer,  as 

*  it  was  known  the  request  would  be  preferred,  I  said,  "  Well !  I 

*  "  supposed  Col.  Phipps  would  speak  to  me  about  it,  and  if  it 
'  "  were  he  who  did  so,  I  should  assure  him  of  my  desire  to  meet 
'  "  any  wish  of  her  Majesty's,  and  should  express  my  hope  that 
'  "  she  would  indulge  me  by  making  one  of  some  audience  or 
'  "  other — for  I  thought  an  audience  necessary  to  the  effect" 

I  1  2 


484 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


London:  *  Thus  it  Stands:  but  it  bothers  me.*  The  difficulty  remained, 
— ^— —  but  her  Majesty's  continued  interest  in  the  Carol  was  alleged  to 
have  been  shown  by  her  purchase  of  it  with  Dickens's  autograph 
at  Thackeray's  sale ;  *  and  at  last  there  came,  in  the  year  of  his 
death,  the  interview  with  the  author  whose  popularity  dated  from 
her  accession,  whose  books  had  entertained  larger  numbers  of 
her  subjects  than  those  of  any  other  contemporary  writer,  and 
whose  genius  will  be  counted  among  the  glories  of  her  reign. 
An  in-       Accident  led  to  it.      Dickens  had  brought  with   him  from 

tcrvicw 

with  her     America  some  large  and  striking  photographs  of  the  Battle  Fields 

Majesty.  ... 

of  the  Civil  War,  which  the  Queen,  having  heard  of  them 
through  Mr.  Helps,  expressed  a  wish  to  look  at.  Dickens  sent 
them  at  once ;  and  went  afterwards  to  Buckingham  Palace  with 
Mr.  Helps,  at  her  Majesty's  request,  that  she  might  see  and 
thank  him  in  person. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  March,  not  April.    *  Come  now  sir, 

*  this  is  an  interesting  matter,  do  favour  us  with  it/  was  the  cry  of 
Johnson's  friends  after  his  conversation  with  George  the  Third ; 
and  again  and  again  the  story  was  told  to  listeners  ready  to  make 
marvels  of  its  commonplaces.  But  the  romance  even  of  the 
eighteenth  century  in  such  a  matter  is  clean  gone  out  of  the 
nineteenth.  Suffice  it  that  the  Queen's  kindness  left  a  strong  im- 
pression on  Dickens.  Upon  her  Majesty's  regret  not  to  have 
heard  his  Readings,  Dickens  intimated  that  they  were  become 
now  a  thing  of  the  past,  while  he  acknowledged  gratefully  her 
Majesty's  compliment  in  regard  to  them.  She  spoke  to  him  of 
the  impression  made  upon  her  by  his  acting  in  the  Frozen  Deep  ; 
and  on  his  stating,  in  reply  to  her  enquiry,  that  the  litde  play  had 
not  been  very  successful  on  the  pubHc  stage,  said  this  did  not 

*  The  book  was  entered  in  the  '  lished  price  was  ^s.    It  became  Her 

catalogue  as  inscribed  ^W.  M.  Thackc-  *  Majesty's  property  for  ^^2^  los.  and 

*  ray,  from  Charles  Dickens  {whom  he  *  was  at  once  taken  to  the  palace. ' — 

*  made  very  happy  once  a  long  way  Since  this  note  first  appeared  Mr. 
^  from  home).''  Some  pleasant  verses  Bumpus  the  bookseller  has  written  to 
by  his  friend  had  affected  him  much  me  to  correct  Mr.  Hotten's  statement, 
while  abroad.  What  follows  is  from  *  Commissioned  by  a  private  gentle- 
the  Life  of  Dickens  published  by  Mr.  '  man,'  Mr.  Bumpus  bought  the  book 
Hotten.    *  Her  Majesty  expressed  the  himself  for  the  sum  named,  and  it  is 

*  strongest  desire  to  possess  this  pre-  now  in  Aineric^, 

*  sentation  copy.    The  original  pub- 


§  HI.] 


Personal  Characteristics, 


485 


surprise  her,  since  it  no  longer  had  the  advantage  of  his  perform-  London  : 

ance  in  it.    Then  arose  a  mention  of  some  alleged  discourtesy  — 

shown  to  Prince  Arthur  in  New  York,  and  he  begged  her  Majesty  what 

not  to  confound  the  true  Americans  of  that  city  with  the  Fenian  inter- 
view. 

portion  of  its  Irish  population ;  on  which  she  made  the  quiet 
comment  that  she  was  convinced  the  people  about  the  Prince  had 
made  too  much  of  the  affair.  He  related  to  her  the  story  of  Pre- 
sident Lincoln's  dream  on  the  night  before  his  murder.  She  asked 
him  to  give  her  his  writings,  and  could  she  have  them  that  after- 
noon ?  but  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  send  a  bound  copy.  Her 
Majesty  then  took  from  a  table  her  own  book  upon  the  High- 
lands, with  an  autograph  inscription  '  to  Charles  Dickens ' ;  and, 
saying  that  '  the  humblest '  of  writers  would  be  ashamed  to  offer 
it  to  *  one  of  the  greatest '  but  that  Mr.  Helps,  being  asked  to 
give  it,  had  remarked  that  it  would  be  valued  most  from  herself, 
closed  the  interview  by  placing  it  in  his  hands.  *  Sir,'  said 
Johnson,  '  they  may  say  what  they  like  of  the  young  King,  but 

*  Louis  the  Fourteenth  could  not  have  shown  a  more  refined 

*  courtliness ' ;  and  Dickens  was  not  disposed  to  say  less  of  the 
young  King's  granddaughter.  That  the  grateful  impression  sufficed 
to  carry  him  into  new  ways,  I  had  immediate  proof,  coupled  with 
intimation  of  the  still  surviving  strength  of  old  memories.    *  As 

*  my  sovereign  desires  '  (26th  of  March  1870)  '  that  I  should  attend 

*  the  next  levee,  don't  faint  with  amazement  if  you  see  my  name 

*  in  that  unwonted  connexion.    I  have  scrupulously  kept  myself 

*  free  for  the  second  of  April,  in  case  you  should  be  accessible.' 
The  name  appeared  at  the  levee  accordingly,  his  daughter  was  at 
the  drawing-room  that  followed,  and  Lady  Houghton  writes  to  me 

*  I  never  saw  Mr.  Dickens  more  agreeable  than  at  a  dinner  at  our 

*  house  about  a  fortnight  before  his  death,  when  he  met  the  King 

*  of  the  Belgians  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  at  the  special  desire  of  JJ^pjlJ*^^ 

*  the  latter.'    Up  to  nearly  the  hour  of  dinner,  it  was  doubtful  if  ^^'"^ 
he  could  go.    He  was  suffering  from  the  distress  in  his  foot ;  and 

on  arrival  at  the  house,  being  unable  to  ascend  the  stairs,  had  to 
be  assisted  at  once  into  the  dining-room.* 

•  Lord  Houghton  tells  me  that  though  unable  to  return  to  tlie  drawing-room 
he  went  there  on  arrival. 


486 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens      [Book  XL 


London : 
1870. 


A  probable 
hope  at 
the  close 
of  life. 


Mr. 

Layard  at 

Gadshill, 

1866-7. 


The  friend  who  had  accompanied  Dickens  to  Buckingham 
Palace,  writing  of  him  after  his  death,  briefly  but  with  admirable 
knowledge  and  taste,  said  that  he  ardently  desired,  and  confidently 
looked  forward  to,  a  time  when  there  would  be  a  more  intimate 
union  than  exists  at  present  between  the  different  classes  in  the 
state,  a  union  that  should  embrace  alike  the  highest  and  the 
lowest.  This  perhaps  expresses,  as  well  as  a  few  words  could, 
what  certainly  was  always  at  his  heart ;  and  he  might  have  come 
to  think  it,  when  his  life  was  closing,  more  possible  of  realisation 
some  day  than  he  ever  thought  it  before.  The  hope  of  it  was  on 
his  friend  Talfourd*s  lips  when  he  died,  and  his  own  most  jarring 
opinions  might  at  last  have  joined  in  the  effort  to  bring  about 
such  reconcilement.  More  on  this  head  it  needs  not  to  say. 
Whatever  may  be  the  objection  to  special  views  held  by  him,  he 
would,  wanting  even  the  most  objectionable,  have  been  less  him- 
self. It  was  by  something  of  the  despot  seldom  separable  from 
genius,  joined  to  a  truthfulness  of  nature  belonging  to  the  highest 
characters,  that  men  themselves  of  a  rare  faculty  were  attracted  to 
find  in  Dickens  what  Sir  Arthur  Helps  has  described,  *  a  man  to 

*  confide  in,  and  look  up  to  as  a  leader,  in  the  midst  of  any  great 
'  peril.' 

Mr.  Layard  also  held  that  opinion  of  him.  He  was  at  Gadshill 
during  the  Christmas  before  Dickens  went  for  the  last  time  to 
America,  and  witnessed  one  of  those  scenes,  not  infrequent  there, 
in  which  the  master  of  the  house  was  pre-eminently  at  home. 
They  took  generally  the  form  of  cricket  matches ;  but  this  was,  to 
use  the  phrase  of  his  friend  Bobadil,  more  popular  and  diffused ; 
and  of  course  he  rose  with  the  occasion.    '  The  more  you  want 

*  of  the  master,  the  more  you'll  find  in  him,'  said  the  gasman 
employed  about  his  readings.  *  Footraces  for  the  villagers,'  he 
wrote  on  Christmas  Day,  '  come  off  in  my  field  to-morrow.  We 

*  have  been  all  hard  at  work  all  day,  building  a  course,  making 

*  countless  flags,  and  I  don't  know  what  else.    Layard  is  chiet 

*  commissioner  of  the  domestic  police.    The  country  police  pre- 

*  diet  an  immense  crowd.'  There  were  between  two  and  three 
thousand  people ;  and  somehow,  by  a  magical  kind  of  influence, 
said  Layard,  Dickens  seemed  to  have  bound  every  creature  pre- 


§  III.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


487 


sent,  upon  what  honour  the  creature  had,  to  keep  order.    What  Gadshill: 

was  the  special  means  used,  or  the  art  employed,  it  might  have  

been  difficult  to  say ;  but  this  was  the  result.  Writing  on  New 
Year's  Day,  Dickens  himself  described  it  to  me.    *  We  had  made 

*  a  very  pretty  course,  and  taken  great  pains.    Encouraged  by 

*  the  cricket  matches  experience,  I  allowed  the  landlord  of  the 

*  Falstaff  to  have  a  drinking-booth  on  the  ground.    Not  to  seem 

*  to  dictate  or  distrust,  I  gave  all  the  prizes  (about  ten  pounds  in  the 

*  aggregate)  in  money.  The  great  mass  of  the  crowd  were  labour-  Games 

*  ing  men  of  all  kinds,  soldiers,  sailors,  and  navvies.    They  did  Siilgers. 

*  not,  between  half-past  ten,  when  we  began,  and  sunset,  displace 

*  a  rope  or  a  stake ;  and  they  left  every  barrier  and  flag  as  neat  as 

*  they  found  it.    There  was  not  a  dispute,  and  there  was  no 

*  drunkenness  whatever.    I  made  them  a  little  speech  from  the 

*  lawn,  at  the  end  of  the  games,  saying  that  please  God  we  would 

*  do  it  again  next  year.  They  cheered  most  lustily  and  dispersed. 
'  The  road  between  this  and  Chatham  was  like  a  Fair  all  day ; 

*  and  surely  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  get  such  perfect  behaviour  out  of 

*  a  reckless  seaport  town.     Among  other  oddities  we  had  A 

*  Hurdle  Race  for  Strangers.    One  man  (he  came  in  second)  ran 

*  120  yards  and  leaped  over  ten  hurdles,  in  twenty  seconds,  with 
'  a  pipe  in  his  mouth ,  and  smoking  it  all  the  time.     If  it  hadn't  been 

*  "  for  your  pipe,"  I  said  to  him  at  the  winning-post,  *'you  would  a  winner. 

*  "  have  been  first."  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  answered, 
*■    but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  pipe,  I  should  have  been  no- 

*  "  where."  '  The  close  of  the  letter  had  this  rather  memorable 
announcement.    *  The  sale  of  the  Christmas  number  was,  yes- 

*  terday  evening,  255,380.'  Would  it  be  absurd  to  say  that  there  is 
something  in  such  a  vast  popularity  in  itself  electrical,  and,  though 
founded  on  books,  felt  where  books  never  reach  ? 

It  is  also  very  noticeable  that  what  would  have  constituted  the 
strength  of  Dickens  if  he  had  entered  pubHc  life,  the  attractive  as 
well  as  the  commanding  side  of  his  nature,  was  that  which  kept 
him  most  within  the  circle  of  home  pursuits  and  enjoyments.  Home 
This  '  better  part '  of  him  had  now  long  survived  that  sorrowful  ments. 
period  of  1857-8,  when,  for  reasons  which  I  have  not  thought 
uiyself  free  to  suppress,  a  vaguely  disturbed  feeling  for  the  time 


488 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     [Book  XI. 


^'^1867'''''  possession  of  him,  and  occurrences  led  to  his  adoption  of 
other  pursuits  than  'those  to  which  till  then  he  had  given  him- 
self exclusively.  It  was  a  sad  interval  in  his  life ;  but,  though 
changes  incident  to  the  new  occupation  then  taken  up  remained, 
and  with  them  many  adverse  influences  which  brought  his  life 
prematurely  to  a  close,  it  was,  with  any  reference  to  that  feeling, 
Same  in  an  interval  only ;  and  the  dominant  impression  of  the  later  years, 
early  years,  as  of  the  earlier,  takes  the  marvellously  domestic  home-loving 
shape  in  which  also  the  strength  of  his  genius  is  found  It  will 
not  do  to  draw  round  any  part  of  such  a  man  too  hard  a  line, 
and  the  writer  must  not  be  charged  with  inconsistency  who  says 
that  Dickens's  childish  sufferings,*  and  the  sense  they  burnt  into 


Hunger- 
ford-mar- 
ket :  1833. 


*  An  entry,  under  the  date  of  July 
1833,  from  a  printed  but  unpublished 
Diary  by  Mr.  Payne  Collier,  appeared 
lately  in  the  Athenatwt^  having  refer- 
ence to  Dickens  at  the  time  when  he 
first  obtained  employment  as  a  re- 
porter, and  connecting  itself  with  what 
my  opening  volume  had  related  of 
those  childish  sufferings.  *  We 
'  walked  together  through  Hungevforcl 

*  Market,  where  we  followed  a  coal- 

*  heaver,  who  carried  his  little  rosy 

*  but  grimy  child  looking  over  his 

*  shoulder ;  and  C.  D.  bought  a  half- 

*  penny-worth  of  cherries,  and  as  we 
'  went  along  he  gave  them  one  by  one 

*  to  the  little  fellow  without  the  know- 
'  ledge  of  the  father  ...  He  informed 

*  me  as  he  walked  through  it  that  he 

*  knew  HungerioxA  Market  well  .  .  . 

*  He  did  not  affect  to  conceal  the  dif- 

*  ficulties  he  and  his  family  had  had  to 

*  contend  against.*  I  take  the  oppor- 
tunity of  this  recurrence  to  the  earlier 
days  to  introduce  another  recollection 
of  Dickens  when  at  school  with  which 
I  have  been  favoured  by  another  of 

ante,  i.  43-9.  his  schoolfellows,  Mr.  Walsh,  the 
Medical  Superintendent  of  the  Lincoln 
Lunatic  Hospital.  It  is  an  evidently 
truthful  picture,  with  points  that  re- 
mained still  noticeable  in  later  life.  *  I 

*  did  not  know  until  your  Life  ap- 


Another 
sketch  of 
Dickens 
at  school 


'  peared  that  the  little  Charley  Dickens 
'  who  went  to  school  with  me  at  old 
'  Jones's  in  the  Hampstead  Road  was 
'  the  famous  writer.    He  lived  near  to 
•  me,  as  I  Hved  at  5  George  Street, 
'  and  he  in  Gower  Place.    We  had 
'  only  to  cross  the  New  Road,  and  I 
used  to  walk  home  from  school  with 
'  him  nearly  every  evening  in  company 
with  two  other  boys — Dan  Tobin 
and  Fred  Theede.    My  recollection 
of  him  is  that  he  was  not  very  tall  of 
his  age,  which  was  between  thirteen 
and  fourteen.    He  had  a  fresh  rosy 
complexion,  rather  light  brown  hair 
and  good  eyes,  a  wide  forehead  but 
not  very  high.    He  walked  very  up- 
right, almost  more   than  upright, 
like  leaning  back  a  little.    He  had 
then  rather  a  full  lower  lip.  He  was 
very  fond  of  theatricals.  I  have  some 
recollection  of  his  getting  up  a  play 
at  Dan  Tobin's  house,  in  the  back 
kitchen— but  not  a  written  play.  We 
made  a  plot,  and  each  had  his  part ; 
but  the  speeches  every  one  was  to 
make  for  himself.     When  we  had 
finished,  we  were  quite  sure  that  if 
there  had  only  been  an  audience  they 
would  all  have  cried,  so  deep  we 
made  the  Tragedy.    Dickens  always 
struck  me  as  being  a  sharp  boy  rather 
than  a  thoughtful  one.    He  had  no* 


§  III.] 


Personal  Characteristics, 


489 


him  of  the  misery  of  loneliness  and  a  craving  for  joys  of  home,  London; 

1836-70. 

though  they  led  to  what  was  weakest  in  him,  led  also  to  what   

was  greatest.    It  was  his  defect  as  well  as  his  merit  in  maturer 

life  not  to  be  able  to  live  alone.    When  the  fancies  of  his  novels 

were  upon  him  and  he  was  under  their  restless  influence,  though 

he  often  talked  of  shutting  himself  up  in  out  of  the  way  solitary 

places,  he  never  went  anywhere  unaccompanied  by  members  of 

his  family.  His  habits  of  daily  livinsf  he  carried  with  him  wherever  Habits 

he  went.    In  Albaro  and  Genoa,  at  Lausanne  and  Geneva,  in  every- 
where. 

Paris  and  Boulogne,  his  ways  were  as  entirely  those  of  home 
as  in  London  and  Broadstairs.  If  it  is  the  property  of  a  domestic 
nature  to  be  personally  interested  in  every  detail,  the  smallest  as 
the  greatest,  of  the  four  walls  within  which  one  lives,  then  no  man 
had  it  so  essentially  as  Dickens.  No  man  was  so  inclined 
naturally  to  derive  his  happiness  from  home  concerns.  Even 
the  kind  of  interest  in  a  house  which  is  commonly  confined  to 
women,  he  was  full  of.  Not  to  speak  of  changes  of  importance, 
there  was  not  an  additional  hook  put  up  wherever  he  inhabited, 
without  his  knowledge,  or  otherwise  than  as  part  of  some  small 
ingenuity  of  his  own.  Nothing  was  too  minute  for  his  personal 
superintendence.  Whatever  might  be  in  hand,  theatricals  for  the 
little  children,  entertainments  for  those  of  larger  growth,  cricket 
matches,  dinners,  field  sports,  from  the  first  new  year's  eve  dance 
in  Doughty  Street  to  the  last  musical  party  in  Hyde  Park  Place, 
he  was  the  centre  and  soul  of  it.  He  did  not  care  to  take  q^^^^^ 
measure  of  its  greater  or  less  importance.  It  was  enough  that  a  of  1,1°"' 
thing  was  to  do,  to  be  worth  his  while  to  do  it  as  if  there  was  ^°""'* 
nothing  else  to  be  done  in  the  world.  The  cry  of  Laud  and 
Wentworth  was  his,  alike  in  small  and  great  things ;  and  to  no 
man  was  more  applicable  the  German  '  Echt,'  which  expresses 
reality  as  well  as  thoroughness.  The  usual  result  followed,  in  all 
his  homes,  of  an  absolute  reliance  on  him  for  everything.  Under 

'  thing  heavy  or  dreamy,  about  him  at  '  thought  that  he  had  been  employed 

*  that  time.    He  was  very  particular  *  at  humble  work.    He  appeared  al- 

*  with  his  clothes — which  consisted  of  *  ways  like  a  gentleman's  son,  rather 
*a  blue  sailor's  costume  and   blue  *  aristocratic  than  otherwise.' 

'  cloth  cap  ;  and  1  never  should  have 


490 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens. 


[Book  XL 


London  :  every  difficulty,  and  in  every  emergency,  his  was  the  encouraging 

 influence,  the  bright  and  ready  help.    In  illness,  whether  of  the 

children  or  any  of  the  servants,  he  was  better  than  a  doctor.  He 
was  so  full  of  resource,  for  which  every  one  eagerly  turned  to  him, 
that  his  mere  presence  in  the  sick-room  was  a  healing  influence, 
as  if  nothing  could  fail  if  he  were  only  there.  So  that  at  last, 
when,  all  through  the  awful  night  which  preceded  his  departure. 
Night  of     he  lay  senseless  in  the  room  where  he  had  fallen,  the  stricken 

the  8th  ^  ; 

oyune,  and  bewildered  ones  who  tended  him  found  it  impossible  to 
believe  that  what  they  saw  before  them  alone  was  left,  or  to  shut 
out  wholly  the  strange  wild  hope  that  he  might  again  be  suddenly 
among  them  like  himself,  and  revive  what  they  could  not  connect, 
even  then,  with  death's  despairing  helplessness. 

It  was  not  a  feeling  confined  to  the  relatives  whom  he  had  thus 
taught  to  have  such  exclusive  dependence  on  him.  Among  the 
consolations  addressed  to  those  mourners  came  words  from  one 
whom  in  life  he  had  most  honoured,  and  who  also  found  it 
difficult  to  connect  him  with  death,  or  to  think  that  he  should 
never  see  that  blithe  face  any  more.    *  It  is  almost  thirty  years,' 

^^870°^        Mr.  Carlyle  wrote,  ^  since  my  acquaintance  with  him  began ;  and 

*  on  my  side,  I  may  say,  every  new  meeting  ripened  it  into  more 

*  and  more  clear  discernment  of  his  rare  and  great  worth  as  a 

*  brother  man :  a  most  cordial,  sincere,  clear-sighted,  quietly 
'  decisive,  just  and  loving  man :  till  at  length  he  had  grown  to 
'  such  a  recognition  with  me  as  I  have  rarely  had  for  any  man  of 
'  my  time.  This  I  can  tell  you  three,  for  it  is  true  and  will  be 
'  welcome  to  you  :  to  others  less  concerned  I  had  as  soon  not 
'  speak  on  such  a  subject,'    *  I  am  profoundly  sorry  for  you, 

nth  of  Mr.  Carlyle  at  the  same  time  wrote  to  me  ;  *  and  indeed  for  my- 
june  1870.    ^  event  world-wide ;  a  unique  of 

*  talents  suddenly  extinct ;  and  has  *'  eclipsed,"  we  too  may  say, 
'  "the  harmless  gaiety  of  nations."    No  death  since  1866  has 

*  fallen  on  me  w^ith  such  a  stroke.    No  literary  man's  hitherto 

*  ever  did.    The  good,  the  gentle,  high-gifted,  ever-friendly,  noble 

*  Dickens, — every  inch  of  him  an  Honest  Man.' 

Of  his  ordinary  habits  of  activity  I  have  spoken,  and  they  were 
doubtless  carried  too  far.    In  youth  it  was  all  well,  but  he  did 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


491 


not  make  allowance  for  years.     This  has  had  abundant  illus-  London: 

1836-70. 

tration,  but  will  admit  of  a  few  words  more.    To  all  men  who  do  

Active 

much,  rule  and  order  are  essential ;  method  m  everythmg  was  habits. 
Dickens's  peculiarity ;  and  between  breakfast  and  luncheon,  with 
rare  exceptions,  was  his  time  of  work.  But  his  daily  walks  were 
less  of  rule  than  of  enjoyment  and  necessity.  In  the  midst  of  his 
writing  they  were  indispensable,  and  especially,  as  it  has  often 
been  shown,  at  night.  Mr.  Sala  is  an  authority  on  London 
streets,  and,  in  the  eloquent  and  generous  tribute  he  was  among 
the  first  to  offer  to  his  memory,  has  described  himself  encountering 
Dickens  in  the  oddest  places  and  most  inclement  weather,  in 
Ratcliffe-highway,  on  Haverstock-hill,  on  Camberwell-green,  in 
Gray's-inn-lane,  in  the  Wandsworth-road,  at  Hammersmith  Broad- 
way, in  Norton  Folgate,  and  at  Kensal  New  Town.    *  A  hansom 

*  whirled  you  by  the  Bell  and  Horns  at  Brompton,  and  there  he 

*  was  striding,  as  with   seven-league  boots,  seemingly  in  the 

*  direction  of  North-end,  Fulham.    The  Metropolitan  Railway 

*  sent  you  forth  at  Lisson-grove,  and  you  met  him  plodding 

*  speedily  towards  the  Yorkshire  Stingo.    He  was  to  be  met 

*  rapidly  skirting  the  grim  brick  wall  of  the  prison  in  Coldbath- 

*  fields,  or  trudging  along  the  Seven  Sisters-road  at  Holloway,  or 

*  bearing,  under  a  steady  press  of  sail,  underneath  Highgate 

*  Archway,  or  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  his  way  up  the  Vauxhall- 

*  bridge-road.'  But  he  was  equally  at  home  in  the  intricate 
byways  of  narrow  streets  as  in  the  lengthy  thoroughfares. 
Wherever  there  was  ^matter  to  be  heard  and  learned,'  in  back  ' 
streets  behind  Holbom,  in  Borough  courts  and  passages,  in  City  London 
wharfs  or  alleys,  about  the  poorer  lodging-houses,  in  prisons, 
workhouses,  ragged-schools,  police-courts,  rag-shops,  chandlers' 
shops,  and  all  sorts  of  markets  for  the  poor,  he  carried  his  keen 
observation  and  untiring  study.    *  I  was  among  the  Italian  Boys 

*  from  12  to  2  this  morning,'  says  one  of  his  letters.    *  I  am  going 

*  out  to-night  in  their  boat  with  the  Thames  Police,'  says  another. 
It  was  the  same  when  he  was  in  Italy  or  Switzerland,  as  we  have 
seen ;  and  when,  in  later  life,  he  was  in  French  provincial  places. 

*  I  walk  miles  away  into  the  country,  and  you  can  scarcely  imagine 

*  by  what  deserted  ramparts  and  silent  little  cathedral  closes,  or 


492 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  XI. 


London 
1865. 


Christmas 
Eves  and 
Days. 


First 
attack  ef 
lameness, 
1865. 


How  It 
came  on. 


*  how  I  pass  over  rusty  drawbridges  and  stagnant  ditches  out  of 

*  and  into  the  decaying  town.'  For  several  consecutive  years  I 
accompanied  him  every  Christmas  Eve  to  see  the  marketings  for 
Christmas  down  the  road  from  Aldgate  to  Bow ;  and  he  had  a 
surprising  fondness  for  wandering  about  in  poor  neighbourhoods 
on  Christmas-day,  past  the  areas  of  shabby  genteel  houses  in 
Somers  or  Kentish  Towns,  and  watching  the  dinners  preparing  or 
coming  in.  But  the  temptations  of  his  country  life  led  him  on  to 
excesses  in  walking.  *  Coming  in  just  now,'  he  wrote  in  his  third 
year  at  Gadshill,  '  after  twelve  miles  in  the  rain,  I  was  so  wet  that 

*  I  have  had  to  change  and  get  my  feet  into  warm  water  before  I 

*  could  do  anything.'  Again,  two  years  later :  *  A  south-easter 
'  blowing,  enough  to  cut  one's  throat.  I  am  keeping  the  house 
'for  my  cold,  as  I  did  yesterday.  But  the  remedy  is  so  new  to 
'  me,  that  I  doubt  if  it  does  me  half  the  good  of  a  dozen  miles  in 
'  the  snow.  So,  if  this  mode  of  treatment  fails  to-day,  I  shall  try 
'  that  to-morrow.'  He  tried  it  perhaps  too  often.  In  the  winter 
of  1865  he  first  had  the  attack  in  his  left  foot  which  materially 
disabled  his  walking-power  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  supposed 
its  cause  to  be  overwalking  in  the  snow,  and  that  this  had 
aggravated  the  suffering  is  very  likely ;  but,  read  by  the  light  of 
what  followed,  it  may  now  be  presumed  to  have  had  more  serious 
origin.  It  recurred  at  intervals,  before  America,  without  any  such 
provocation ;  in  America  it  came  back,  not  when  he  had  most 
been  walking  in  the  snow,  but  when  nervous  exhaustion  was  at  its 
worst  with  him ;  after  America,  it  became  prominent  on  the  eve 
of  the  occurrence  at  Preston  which  first  revealed  the  progress  that 
disease  had  been  making  in  the  vessels  of  the  brain  ;  and  in  the 
last  year  of  his  life,  as  will  immediately  be  seen,  it  was  a  constant 
trouble  and  most  intense  suffering,  extending  then  gravely  to  his 
left  hand  also,  which  had  before  been  only  slightly  affected. 

It  was  from  a  letter  of  the  21st  of  February  1865  I  first  learnt 
that  he  was  suffering  tortures  from  a  *  frost-bitten '  foot,  and  ten 
days  later  brought  more  detailed  account.  *  I  got  frost-bitten  by 
'  walking  continually  in  the  snow,  and  getting  wet  in  the  feet 

*  daily.  My  boots  hardened  and  softened,  hardened  and  softened, 
'  my  left  foot  swelled,  and  I  still  forced  the  boot  on ;  sat  in  it  to 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


493 


*  write,  half  the  day ;  walked  in  it  through  the  snow,  the  other  London  : 

1836-70, 

*  half ;  forced  the  boot  on  again  next  morning ;  sat  and  walked  

*  again  j  and  being  accustomed  to  all  sorts  of  changes  in  my  feet, 

*  took  no  heed.    At  length,  going  out  as  usual,  I  fell  lame  on  the 

*  walk,  and  had  to  limp  home  dead  lame,  through  the  snow,  for 

*  the  last  three  miles — to  the  remarkable  terror,  by-the-bye,  of  the  Ante^  267-8. 

*  two  big  dogs.'  The  dogs  were  Turk  and  Linda,  Boisterous 
companions  as  they  always  were,  the  sudden  change  in  him 
brought  them  to  a  stand-still;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  they 
crept  by  the  side  of  their  master  as  slowly  as  he  did,  never  turning 
from  him.  He  was  greatly  moved  by  the  circumstance,  and  often 
referred  to  it.  Turk's  look  upward  to  his  face  was  one  of  sym- 
pathy as  well  as  fear,  he  said;  but  Linda  was  wholly  struck 
down. 

The  saying  in  his  letter  to  his  youngest  son  that  he  was  to  do  to  a  rule  of 

life. 

Others  what  he  would  that  they  should  do  to  him,  without  being 
discouraged  if  they  did  not  do  it ;  and  his  saying  to  the  Birmingham 
people  that  they  were  to  attend  to  self-improvement  not  because 
it  led  to  fortune,  but  because  it  was  right ;  express  a  principle 
that  at  all  times  guided  himself.  Capable  of  strong  attachments, 
he  was  not  what  is  called  an  effusive  man ;  but  he  had  no  half- 
heartedness  in  any  of  his  likings.  The  one  thing  entirely  hateful 
to  him,  was  indifference.    *  I  give  my  heart  to  very  few  people ; 

*  but  I  would  sooner  love  the  most  implacable  man  in  the  world 
'  than  a  careless  one,  who,  if  my  place  were  empty  to-morrow, 

*  would  rub  on  and  never  miss  me.'  There  was  nothing  he  more 
repeatedly  told  his  children  than  that  they  were  not  to  let 
indifference  in  others  appear  to  justify  it  in  themselves.  *A11 

*  kind  things,'  he  wrote,  *  must  be  done  on  their  own  account,  and 

*  for  their  own  sake,  and  without  the  least  reference  to  any  grati- 

*  tude.'  Again  he  laid  it  down,  while  he  was  making  some 
exertion  for  the  sake  of  a  dead  friend  that  did  not  seem  likely  to 
win  proper  appreciation  fram  those  it  was  to  serve.    *  As  to  grati- 

*  tude  from  the  family — as  I  have  often  remarked  to  you,  one  does 

*  a  generous  thing  because  it  is  right  and  pleasant,  and  not  for 

*  any  response  it  is  to  awaken  in  others.'  The  rule  in  another 
form  frequently  appears  in  his  letters ;  and  it  was  enforced  in 


494 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  XI. 


London : 
1836-70. 


One  of  his 
heroes. 


Another. 


At  social 
meetings. 


many  ways  upon  all  who  were  dear  to  him.  It  is  worth  while  to 
add  his  comment  on  a  regret  of  a  member  of  his  family  at  an  act 
of  self-devotion  supposed  to  have  been  thrown  away  :  *  Nothing 

*  of  what  is  nobly  done  can  ever  be  lost'  It  is  also  to  be  noted 
as  in  the  same  spirit,  that  it  was  not  the  loud  but  the  silent 
heroisms  he  most  admired.  Of  Sir  John  Richardson,  one  of  the 
few  who  have  lived  in  our  days  entitled  to  the  name  of  a  hero, 
he  wrote  from  Paris  in  1856.  *  Lady  Franklin  sent  me  the  whole 
'  of  that  Richardson  memoir ;  and  I  think  Richardson's  manly 

*  friendship,  and  love  of  Franklin,  one  of  the  noblest  things  I 
'  ever  knew  in  my  life.    It  makes  one's  heart  beat  high,  with  a 

*  sort  of  sacred  joy.'  (It  is  the  feeling  as  strongly  awakened  by 
the  earlier  exploits  of  the  same  gallant  man  to  be  found  at  the 
end  of  Franklin's  first  voyage,  and  never  to  be  read  without  the 
most  exalted  emotion.)  It  was  for  something  higher  than  mere 
literature  he  valued  the  most  original  writer  and  powerful  teacher 
of  the  age.    *  I  would  go  at  all  times  farther  to  see  Carlyle  than 

*  any  man  alive.* 

Of  his  attractive  points  in  society  and  conversation  I  have 
particularized  little,  because  in  truth  they  were  himself.  Such  as 
they  were,  they  were  never  absent  from  him.  His  acute  sense  of 
enjoyment  gave  such  relish  to  his  social  qualities  that  probably 
no  man,  not  a  great  wit  or  a  professed  talker,  ever  left,  in  leaving 
any  social  gathering,  a  blank  so  impossible  to  fill  up.  In  quick 
and  varied  sympathy,  in  ready  adaptation  to  every  whim  or 
humour,  in  help  to  any  mirth  or  game,  he  stood  for  a  dozen  men. 
If  one  may  say  such  a  thing,  he  seemed  to  be  always  the  more 
himself  for  being  somebody  else,  for  continually  putting  off  his 
personality.  His  versatility  made  him  unique.  What  he  said 
once  of  his  own  love  of  acting,  applied  to  him  equally  when  at 
his  happiest  among  friends  he  loved;  sketching  a  character, 
telling  a  story,  acting  a  charade,  taking  part  in  a  game ;  turning 
into  comedy  an  incident  of  the  day,  describing  the  last  good  or 
bad  thing  he  had  seen,  reproducing  in  quaint,  tragical,  or 
humorous  form  and  figure,  some  part  of  the  passionate  life  with 
which  all  his  being  overflowed.    *  Assumption  has  charms  for  me 

*  so  delightful — I  hardly  know  for  how  many  wild  reasons — th^t 


§  ni.] 


Personal  Characteristics, 


495 


*  I  feel  a  loss  of  Oh  I  can't  say  what  exquisite  foolery,  when  I  London  : 

J  836-70. 

*  lose  a  chance  of  being  some  one  not  in  the  remotest  degree  

*  like  myself.'    How  it  was,  that,  from  one  of  such  boundless  in  '  as- 
resource  in  contributing  to  the  pleasure  of  his  friends,  there  was  * 
yet,  as  I  have  said,  so  comparatively  little  to  bring  away,  may  be 
thus  explained.    But  it  has  been  also  seen  that  no  one  at  times 
said  better  things,  and  to  happy  examples  formerly  given  I  will 

add  one  or  two  of  a  kind  he  more  rarely  indulged.  *  He  is  below 
*■  par  on  the  Exchange,'  a  friend  remarked  of  a  notorious  puffing 
actor ;  *  he  doesn't  stand  well  at  Lloyd's.'    *  Yet  no  one  stands  so 

*  well  with  the  underwriters,'  said  Dickens ;  a  pun  that  Swift 
would  have  envied.  *  I  call  him  an  Incubus ! '  said  a  non- 
literary  friend,  at  a  loss  to  express  the  boredom  inflicted  on  him 

by  a  popular  author.    *  Pen-and-ink-ubus,  you  mean,'  interposed  Puns  and 

pleasan- 

Dickens.    So,  when  Stanfield  said  of  his  midshipman  son,  then  t"es. 
absent  on  his  first  cruise,  *  your  boy  has  got  his  sea-legs  on  by  this 

*  time  ! '    *  I  don't  know,'  remarked  Dickens,  *  about  his  getting 

*  his  sea-legs  on ;  but  if  I  may  judge  from  his  writing,  he  cer- 

*  tainly  has  not  got  his  A  B  C  legs  on.' 

Other  agreeable  pleasantries  might  be  largely  cited  from  his 
letters.     'An  old  priest '  (he  wrote  from  France  in  1862),  'the 

*  express  image  of  Frederic  Lemaitre  got  up  for  the  part,  and  very 
'  cross  with  the  toothache,  told  me  in  a  railway  carriage  the  other 

*  day,  that  we  had  no  antiquities  in  heretical  England.    "  None 

*  **at  all  ?  "  I  said.  "  You  have  some  ships  however."  "  Yes  ;  a 
*"few."    "Are  they  strong?"    "Well,"  said  I,  "your  trade  is 

*  "  spiritual,  my  father :  ask  the  ghost  of  Nelson."    A  French 

*  captain  who  was  in  the  carriage,  was  immensely  delighted  with 

*  this  small  joke.  I  met  him  at  Calais  yesterday  going  some- 
'  where  with  a  detachment;  and  he  said — Pardon  !    But  he  had 

*  been  so  limited  as  to  suppose  an  Englishman  incapable  of  that 

*  bonhommie  !'    In  humouring  a  joke  he  was  excellent,  both  in  Humouring 

,  jokes. 

letters  and  talk;  and  for  this  kind  of  enjoyment  his  least  im- 
portant little  notes  are  often  worth  preserving.  Take  one  small 
instance.  So  freely  had  he  admired  a  tale  told  by  his  friend  and 
solicitor  Mr.  Frederic  Ouvry,  that  he  had  to  reply  to  a  humorous 
proposal  for  publication  of  it,  in  his  own  manner,  in  his  own 


496 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,     [Book  xi. 


London  :  periodical.  *  Youi  modcsty  is  equal  to  your  merit  ...  I  think 
 *  your  way  of  describing  that  rustic  courtship  in  middle  life,  quite 

*  matchless  A  cheque  for  ;^iooo  is  lying  with  the 

*  publisher.  We  would  willingly  make  it  more,  but  that  we  find 
Two  *  our  law  charges  so  exceedingly  heavy.'  His  letters  have  also 
Y^&f^"^      examples  now  and  then  of  what  he  called  his  conversational 

triumphs.     *I  have  distinguished  myself  *  (28th  of  April  1861) 

*  in  two  respects  lately.  I  took  a  young  lady,  unknown,  down 
'  to  dinner,  and,  talking  to  her  about  the  Bishop  of  Durham's 
'  nepotism  in  the  matter  of  Mr.  Cheese,  I  found  she  was 
'■  Mrs.  Cheese.  And  I  expatiated  to  the  member  for  Marylebone, 
'  Lord  Fermoy,  generally  conceiving  him  to  be  an  Irish  member, 
'  on  the  contemptible  character  of  the  Marylebone  constituency 

*  and  Marylebone  representation.' 

Ghost  Among  his  good  things  should  not  be  omitted  his  telling  of  a 

ghost  story.  He  had  something  of  a  hankering  after  them,  as  the 
readers  of  his  briefer  pieces  will  know ;  and  such  was  his  interest 
generally  in  things  supernatural,  that,  but  for  the  strong  restraining 
power  of  his  common  sense,  he  might  have  fallen  into  the  follies 
of  spiritualism.  As  it  was,  no  man  was  readier  to  apply  sharp 
tests  to  such  a  ghost  narrative  as  will  be  found,  for  example,  in 
the  125th  number  of  All  the  Year  Round^  which  before  its  pub- 
lication both  Mr.  Layard  and  myself  saw  at  Gadshill,  and 
identified  as  one  related  by  Lord  Lytton.  It  was  published  in 
September,  and  a  day  or  two  afterwards  Dickens  wrote  to  Lytton  : 

*  The  artist  himself  who  is  the  hero  of  that  story  has  sent  me 

*  in  black  and  white  his  own  account  of  the  whole  experience,  so 

*  very  original,  so  very  extraordinary,  so  very  far  beyond  the  ver- 

*  sion  I  have  published,  that  all  other  like  stories  turn  pale  before 

*  it.'  The  ghost  thus  reinforced  came  out  in  the  number  pub- 
lished on  the  5th  of  October ;  and  the  reader  who  cares  to  turn 
to  it,  and  compare  what  Dickens  in  the  interval  (17th  of  Sep- 
tember) wrote  to  myself,  will  have  some  measure  of  his  readiness 
to  believe  in  such  things.    *  Upon  the  publication  of  the  ghost 

*  story,  up  has  started  the  portrait-painter  who  saw  the  phantoms  ! 

*  He  had  been,  it  seems,  engaged  to  write  his  adventure  elsewhere 

*  as  a  story  for  Christmas,  and  not  unnaturally  supposed,  when  he 


§  in.] 


Personal  Characteristics. 


497 


*  saw  himself  anticipated  by  us,  that  there  had  been  treachery  at  London  : 

1870. 

*  his  printer's.    "  In  particular,"  says  he,    how  else  was  it  possible   

Marvels 

*  "  that  the  date,  the  13th  of  September,  could  have  been  got  at?  of  coinci- 

dence. 

*  "  For  I  never  told  the  date,  until  I  wrote  it."    Now,  my  story 

*  had  NO  DATE ;  but  seeing,  when  I  looked  over  the  proof,  the 

*  great  importance  of  having  a  date,  I  (C.  D.)  wrote  in,  uncon- 

*  sciously,  the  exact  date  on  the  margin  of  the  proof ! '  The 
reader  will  remember  the  Doncaster  race  story;  and  to  other  like  Ante,  237. 
illustrations  of  the  subject  already  given,  may  be  added  this 
dream.     *  Here  is  a  curious  case  at  first-hand  *  (30th  of  May 
1863).    *  On  Thursday  night  in  last  week,  being  at  the  office 

*  here,  I  dreamed  that  I  saw  a  lady  in  a  red  shawl  with  her  back 

*  towards  me  (whom  I  supposed  to  be  E.).  On  her  turning  round 

*  I  found  that  I  didn't  know  her,  and  she  said  "  I  am  Miss 

*  "  Napier."   All  the  time  I  was  dressing  next  morning,  I  thought 

*  — What  a  preposterous  thing  to  have  so  very  distinct  a  dream 

*  about  nothing  !  and  why  Miss  Napier  ?  for  I  never  heard  of  any 

*  Miss  Napier.     That  same  Friday  night,  I  read.    After  the 

*  reading,  came  into  my  retiring-room,  Mary  Boyle  and  her 

*  brother,  and  the  Lady  in  the  red  shawl  whom  they  present 
as  "  Miss  Napier ! "    These  are  all  the  circumstances,  exactly 

'  told.' 

Another  kind  of  dream  has  had  previous  record,  with  no  super-  i.  76-7,  287, 
stition  to  build  itself  upon  but  the  loving  devotion  to  one  tender  ^' 
memory.  With  longer  or  shorter  intervals  this  was  with  him  all  his 
days.   Never  from  his  waking  thoughts  was  the  recollection  alto- 
gether absent ;  and  though  the  dream  would  leave  him  for  a  time,  it 
unfailingly  came  back.    It  was  the  feeling  of  his  life  that  always  had 
a  mastery  over  him.  What  he  said  on  the  sixth  anniversary  of  the 
death  of  his  sister-in-law,  that  friend  of  his  youth  whom  he  had 
made  his  ideal  of  all  moral  excellence,  he  might  have  said  as  truly 
after  twenty-six  years  more ;  for  in  the  very  year  before  he  died,  the  Predomi- 
influence  was  potently  upon  him.   *  She  is  so  much  in  my  thoughts  pression 

of  his  life. 

*  at  all  times,  especially  when  I  am  successful,  and  have  greatly 

*  prospered  in  anything,  that  the  recollection  of  her  is  an  essential 

*  part  of  my  being,  and  is  as  inseparable  from  my  existence  as  the 

*  beating  of  my  heart  is.'    Through  later  troubled  years,  whatever 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  x 


was  worthiest  in  him  found  in  this  an  ark  of  safety ;  and  it  was 
the  nobler  part  of  his  being  which  had  thus  become  also  the 
essential.  It  gave  to  success  what  success  by  itself  had  no  power 
to  give  'y  and  nothing  could  consist  with  it,  for  any  length  of  time, 
that  was  not  of  good  report  and  pure.  What  more  could  I  say 
that  was  not  better  said  from  the  pulpit  of  the  Abbey  where  he 
rests  ? 

*  He  whom  we  mourn  was  the  friend  of  mankind,  a  philan- 

*  thropist  in  the  true  sense ;  the  friend  of  youth,  the  friend  of  the 

*  poor,  the  enemy  of  every  form  of  meanness  and  oppression.  I 

*  am  not  going  to  attempt  to  draw  a  portrait  of  him.  Men  of 
'  genius  are  different  from  what  we  suppose  them  to  be.  They 

*  have  greater  pleasures  and  greater  pains,  greater  affections  and 
'  greater  temptations,  than  the  generality  of  mankind,  and  they 

*  can  never  be  altogether  understood  by  their  fellow  men  

*  But  we  feel  that  a  light  has  gone  out,  that  the  world  is  darker  to 
'  us,  when  they  depart.    There  are  so  very  few  of  them  that  we 

cannot  afford  to  lose  them  one  by  one,  and  we  look  vainly  round 
'  for  others  who  may  supply  their  places.  He  whose  loss  we  now 
'  mourn  occupied  a  greater  space  than  any  other  vvTiter  in  the  minds 
'■  of  Englishmen  during  the  last  thirty-three  years.  We  read  him, 
*■  talked  about  him,  acted  him ;  we  laughed  with  him ;  we  were  roused 
'  by  him  to  a  consciousness  of  the  misery  of  others,  and  to  a  pathetic 
'  interest  in  human  life.  Works  of  fiction,  indirectly,  are  great 
'  instructors  of  this  world ;  and  we  can  hardly  exaggerate  the  debt 

*  of  gratitude  which  is  due  to  a  writer  who  has  led  us  to  sympa- 
'  thize  with  these  good,  true,  sincere;  honest  English  characters  of 
'  ordinary  life,  and  to  laugh  at  the  egotism,  the  hypocrisy,  the 
'  false  respectability  of  religious  professors  and  others.  To 
'  another  great  humourist  who  lies  in  this  Church  the  words  have 

*  been  applied  that  his  death  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations.  But 

*  of  him  who  has  been  recently  taken  I  would  rather  say,  in 
'  humbler  language,  that  no  one  was  ever  so  much  beloved  or  so 

*  much  mourned.' 


BOOK  TWELFTH. 

THE  CLOSE. 

1870.  ^T.  58. 

I.  Last  Days. 
II.  Westminster  Abbey. 


LAST  DAYS. 
1869 — 1870. 

The  summer  and  autumn  of  1869  were  passed  quietly  at  gadsmih. 

1869. 

Gadshill.    He  received  there,  in  June,  the  American  friends  to  

whom  he  had  been  most  indebted  for  unwearying  domestic  kind-  Mrs.\ieitis. 
ness  at  his  most  trying  time  in  the  States.  In  August,  he  was  at 
the  dinner  of  the  International  boat-race ;  and,  in  a  speech  that 
might  have  gone  far  to  reconcile  the  victors  to  changing  places 
with  the  vanquished,  gave  the  healths  of  the  Harvard  and  the 
Oxford  crews.  He  went  to  Birmingham,  in  September,  to  fulfil  a 
promise  that  he  would  open  the  session  of  the  Institute;  and 
there,  after  telling  his  audience  that  his  invention,  such  as  it  was, 
never  would  have  served  him  as  it  had  done,  but  for  the  habit  of 
commonplace,  patient,  drudging  attention,  he  declared  his  political  At  Bir- 

-  .  ,  .  mingham. 

creed  to  be  infinitesimal  faith  in  the  people  governing  and  illimit-  Ante  480. 
able  faith  in  the  People  governed.  In  such  engagements  as  these, 
with  nothing  of  the  kind  of  strain  he  had  most  to  dread,  there  was 
hardly  more  movement  or  change  than  was  necessary  to  his  enjoy- 
ment of  rest. 

He  had  been  able  to  show  Mr.  Fields  something  of  the  interest 
of  London  as  well  as  of  his  Kentish  home.    He  went  over  its 
general  post-office  with  him,  took  him  among  its  cheap  theatres 
and  poor  lodging-houses,  and  piloted  him  by  night  through  its 
most  notorious  thieves'  quarter.   Its  localities  that  are  pleasantest 
to  a  lover  of  books,  such  as  Johnson's  Bolt-court  and  Goldsmith's 
Temple-chambers,  he  explored  with  him;  and,  at  his  visitor's 
special  request,  mounted  a  staircase  he  had  not  ascended  for  visitor 
more  than  thirty  years,  to  show  the  chamber  in  Furnival's  Inn  wher" 
where  the  first  page  of  Pickwick  was  written.    One  more  book,  was  begun, 
unfinished,  was  to  close  what  that  famous  book  began ;  and  the 
original  of  the  scene  of  its  opening  chapter,  the  opium-eater's 
den,  was  the  last  place  visited.    '  In  a  miserable  court  at  night,' 


502 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  XII. 


London:  Say s  Mr.  Fields,  'we  found  a  haggard  old  woman  blowing  at  a 
— —  *  kind  of  pipe  made  of  an  old  ink-bottle ;  and  the  words  that 

*  Dickens  puts  into  the  mouth  of  this  wretched  creature  in  Edwin 
'  Drood^  we  heard  her  croon  as  we  leaned  over  the  tattered  bed  in 
'  which  she  was  lying.' 

Before  beginning  his  novel  he  had  written  his  last  paper  for  his 
weekly  pubHcation.    It  was  a  notice  of  my  Life  of  Landor,  and 
contained  some  interesting  recollections  of  that  remarkable  man. 
Last  paper    His  mcmory  at  this  time  dwelt  much,  as  was  only  natural, 

m  All  the         ,  ^  ,  '  ' 

R^'^'' d  ^^^^  P^^^  pleasant  time,  as  he  saw  familiar  faces  leaving  us  or 
likely  to  leave ;  and,  on  the  death  of  one  of  the  comedians  asso- 
ciated with  the  old  bright  days  of  Covent  Garden,  I  had  intima- 
tion of  a  fancy  that  had  never  quitted  him  since  the  Cheltenham 
reading.  *  I  see  in  the  paper  to-day  that  Meadows  is  dead.  I 
'  had  a  talk  with  him  at  Coutts's  a  week  or  two  ago,  when  he 

*  said  he  was  seventy-five,  and  very  weak.  Except  for  having  a 
'  tearful  eye,  he  looked  just  the  same  as  ever.    My  mind  still 

*  constantly  misgives  me  concerning  Macready.  Curiously,  I  don't 
'  think  he  has  been  ever,  for  ten  minutes  together,  out  of  my 
'  thoughts  since  I  talked  with  Meadows  last.    Well,  the  year  that 

*  brings  trouble  brings  comfort  too  :  I  have  a  great  success  in  the 

*  boy-line  to  announce  to  you.  Harry  has  won  the  second 
Son  *  scholarship  at  Trinity  Hall,  which  gives  him  ^£50  a  year  as  long 
scholar-      '  as  he  stays  there  ;  and  I  begin  to  hope  that  he  will  get  a  fellow- 

'  ship.'  I  doubt  if  anything  ever  more  truly  pleased  him  than 
this  little  success  of  his  son  Henry  at  Cambridge.  Henry  missed 
the  fellowship,  but  was  twenty-ninth  wrangler  in  a  fair  year,  when 
the  wranglers  were  over  forty. 

He  finished  his  first  number  of  Edwin  Drood  in  the  third  week 
of  October,  and  on  the  26th  read  it  at  my  house  with  great  spirit. 
A  few  nights  before  we  had  seen  together  at  the  Olympic  a  little 
drama  taken  from  his  Copperfield,  which  he  sat  out  with  more 
than  patience,  even  with  something  of  enjoyment ;  and  another 
■j/leasure  was  given  him  that  night  by  its  author,  Mr.  Halliday, 
who  brought  into  the  box  another  dramatist,  Mr.  Robertson,  to 
whom  Dickens,  who  then  first  saw  him,  said  that  to  himself  the 
cnarm  of  his  little  comedies  was  '  their  unassuming  form,'  which 


§1.] 


Last  Days. 


503 


had  so  happily  shown  that  '  real  wit  could  afford  to  put  off  any  London  : 

1869-70. 

*  airs  of  pretension  to  it'    He  was  at  Gadshill  till  the  close  of  

the  year ;  coming  up  for  a  few  special  occasions,  such  as  Procter's 
eighty-second  birthday ;  and  at  my  house  on  new-year's  eve  he 
read  to  us  a  fresh  number  of  his  Edwin  Drood.  Yet  these 
very  last  days  of  December  had  not  been  without  a  reminder  of 
the  grave  warnings  of  April.  The  pains  in  somewhat  modified 
form  had  returned  in  both  his  left  hand  and  his  left  foot  a  few 
days  before  we  met ;  and  they  were  troubling  him  still  on  that 
day.  But  he  made  so  light  of  them  himself ;  so  little  thought  of 
connecting  them  with  the  uncertainties  of  touch  and  tread  of 
which  they  were  really  part  :  and  read  with  such  an  overflow  of  ^  private 

reading  of 

humour  Mr.  Honeythunder's  boisterous  philanthropy ;  that  there  ^^^'l 
was  no  room,  then,  for  anything  but  enjoyment.  His  only 
allusion  to  an  effect  from  his  illness  was  his  mention  of  a  now 
invincible  dislike  which  he  had  to  railway  travel.  This  had 
decided  him  to  take  a  London  house  for  the  twelve  last  readings 
in  the  early  months  of  1870,  and  he  had  become  Mr.  Milner 
Gibson's  tenant  at  5,  Hyde  Park  Place. 

St.  James's  Hall  was  to  be  the  scene  of  these  Readings,  and 
they  were  to  occupy  the  interval  from  the  nth  of  January  to  the 
15th  of  March;  two  being  given  in  each  week  to  the  close  of 
January,  and  the  remaining  eight  on  each  of  the  eight  Tuesdays 
following.    Nothing  was  said  of  any  kind  of  apprehension  as  the  Additional 
time  approached;  but,  with  a  curious  absence  of  the  sense  of fe" dings: 
danger,  there  was  certainly  both  distrust  and  fear.    Sufficient  ^49-^5;. 
precaution  was  supposed  to  have  been  taken  *  by  arrangement 


*  I  desire  to  guard  myself  against 
any  possible  supposition  that  I  think 
these  Readings  might  have  been 
stopped  by  the  exercise  of  medical 
authority.  I  am  convinced  of  the 
contrary.  Dickens  had  pledged  him- 
self to  them  ;  and  the  fact  that  others' 
interests  were  engaged  rather  than  his 
own  supplied  him  with  an  overpower- 
ing motive  for  being  determinedly  set 
on  going  through  with  them.  At  the 
sorrowful  time  in  the  preceding  year, 


when,  yielding  to  the  stern  sentence 
passed  by  Sir  Thomas  Watson,  he  had 
dismissed  finally  the  staff  employed  on 
his  country  readings,  he  had  thus 
written  to  me.  *  I  do  believe '  (3rd  of 
May  1869)  '  that  such  people  as  the 

*  Chappells  are  very  rarely  to  be  found 
'  in  human  affairs.  To  say  nothing  of 
'  their  noble  and  munificent  manner  of 

*  sweeping  away  into  space  all  the 

*  charges  incurred  uselessly,  and  all 

*  the  inunense  inconvenience  and  pro- 


504 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  XII. 


London:  for  the  presence,  at  each  reading,  of  his  friend  and  medical 

 attendant,  Mr.  F.  C.  Beard;  but  this  resolved  itself,  not  into  any 

measure  of  safety,  the  case  admitting  of  none  short  of  stopping 
the  reading  altogether,  but  simply  into  ascertainment  of  the  exact 
amount  of  strain  and  pressure,  which,  with  every  fresh  exertion, 
he  was  placing  on  those  vessels  of  the  brain  where  the  Preston 
trouble  too  surely  had  revealed  that  danger  lay.  No  supposed 
force  in  reserve,  no  dominant  strength  of  will,  can  turn  aside  the 
SregSd-^  penalties  sternly  exacted  for  disregard  of  such  laws  of  life  as  were 
iaws.^^'^  here  plainly  overlooked  j  and  though  no  one  may  say  that  it  was 
not  already  too  late  for  any  but  the  fatal  issue,  there  will  be  no 
presumption  in  believing  that  life  might  yet  have  been  for  some 
time  prolonged  if  these  readings  could  have  been  stopped. 

*  I  am  a  little  shaken,'  he  wrote  on  the  9th  of  January,  '  by  my 
*  journey  to  Birmingham  to  give  away  the  Institution's  prizes  on 
'  Twelfth  Night,  but  I  am  in  good  heart ;  and,  notwithstanding 
'  Lowe's  worrying  scheme  for  collecting  a  year's  taxes  in  a  lump, 
'  which  they  tell  me  is  damaging  books,  pictures,  music,  and 
'theatres  beyond  precedent,  our  "let"  at  St  James's  Hall  is 
'  enormous.'  He  opened  with  Copperfield  and  the  Pickwick 
Trial ;  and  I  may  briefly  mention,  from  the  notes  taken  by 
Mr.  Beard  and  placed  at  my  disposal,  at  what  cost  of  exertion  to 
himself  he  gratified  the  crowded  audiences  that  then  and  to  the 
close  made  these  evenings  memorable.  His  ordinary  pulse  on 
the  first  night  was  at  72  j  but  never  on  any  subsequent  night  was 
lower  than  82,  and  had  risen  on  the  later  nights  to  more  than  a 
Excitement  loo.    After  Copperfield  on  the  first  night  it  went  up  to  96,  and 

incident  . 

to  readings,  after  Marigold  on  the  second  to  99  ;  but  on  the  first  night  of  the 
Sikes  and  Nancy  scenes  (Friday  the  21st  of  January)  it  went 
from  80  to  112,  and  on  the  second  night  (the  ist  of  February)  to 


'  fitless  work  thrown  upon  their  esta- 
'  bhshment,  comes  a  note  this  morning 

*  from  the  senior  partner,  to  the  efifect 
'  that  they  feel  that  my  overwork  has 
'  been  *'  indirectly  caused  by  them, 

*  *'  and  by  my  great  and  kind  exertions 

*  "  to  make  their  venture  successful  to 

*  **  the  extreme. "    There  is  something 


*  so  delicate  and  fine  in  this,  that  I 
'  feel  it  deeply.'  That  feeling  led  to 
his  resolve  to  make  the  additional 
exertion  of  these  twelve  last  readings, 
and  nothing  would  have  turned  him 
from  it  as  long  as  he  could  stand  at 
the  desk. 


§  !•] 


Last  Days. 


505 


118.    From  this,  through  the  six  remaining  nights,  it  never  was  London: 

1870. 

lower  than  no  after  the  first  piece  read;  and  after  the  third  and 
fourth  readings  of  the  Oliver  Twist  scenes  it  rose,  from  90  to  124 
on  the  15th  of  February,  and  from  94  to  120  on  the  8th  of 
March  ;  on  the  former  occasion,  after  twenty  minutes'  rest,  falling 
to  98,  and  on  the  latter,  after  fifteen  minutes'  rest,  falling  to  82. 
His  ordinary  pulse  on  entering  the  room,  during  these  last  six 
nights,  was  more  than  once  over  100,  and  never  lower  than  84 ; 
from  which  it  rose,  after  Nickleby  on  the  22nd  of  February,  to 
112.  On  the  8th  of  February,  when  he  read  Dombey^  it  had 
risen  from  91  to  114;  on  the  ist  of  March,  after  Copperfield,  it 
rose  from  100  to  124 ;  and  when  he  entered  the  room  on  the  last 
night  it  was  at  108,  having  risen  only  two  beats  more  when  the 
reading  was  done.  The  pieces  on  this  occasion  were  the 
Christmas  Carols  followed  by  the  Pickwick  Trial ;  and  probably  ^^st  ,ught 
in  all  his  life  he  never  read  so  well.  On  his  return  from  the 
States,  where  he  had  to  address  his  effects  to  audiences  composed 
of  immense  numbers  of  people,  a  certain  loss  of  refinement  had 
been  observable ;  but  the  old  delicacy  was  now  again  delightfully 
manifest,  and  a  subdued  tone,  as  well  in  the  humorous  as  the 
serious  portions,  gave  something  to  all  the  reading  as  of  a  quiet 
sadness  of  farewell.  The  charm  of  this  was  at  its  height  when 
he  shut  the  volume  of  Pickwick  and  spoke  in  his  own  person. 
He  said  that  for  fifteen  years  he  had  been  reading  his  own  books 
to  audiences  whose  sensitive  and  kindly  recognition  of  them  had 
given  him  instruction  and  enjoyment  in  his  art  such  as  few  men 
could  have  had  ;  but  that  he  nevertheless  thought  it  well  now  to 
retire  upon  older  associations,  and  in  future  to  devote  himself 
exclusively  to  the  calling  which  had  first  made  him  known.    *  In 

*  but  two  short  weeks  from  this  time  I  hope  that  you  may  enter, 
'  in  your  own  homes,  on  a  new  series  of  readings  at  which  my 

*  assistance  will  be  indispensable ;  but  from  these  garish  lights  I 

*  vanish  now  for  evermore,  with  a  heartfelt,  grateful,  respectful, 

*  affectionate  farewell.'  The  brief  hush  of  silence  as  he  moved 
from  the  platform ;  and  the  prolonged  tumult  of  sound  that  fol- 
lowed suddenly,  stayed  him,  and  again  for  another  moment 
brought  him  back  ;  will  not  be  forgotten  by  any  present. 


5o6 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.      [Book  xil. 


London  :      Little  remains  to  be  told  that  has  not  in  it  almost  unmixed  pain 
1870. 

 and  sorrow.    Hardly  a  day  passed,  while  the  readings  went  on  or 

after  they  closed,  unvisited  by  some  effect  or  other  of  the  disas- 
trous excitement  shown  by  the  notes  of  Mr.  Beard.    On  the  23rd 

Results  of    of  January,  when  for  the  last  time  he  met  Carlyle,  he  came  to  us 

over-excite- 
ment,        with  his  left  hand  in  a  sling ;  on  the  7th  of  February,  when  he 

passed  with  us  his  last  birthday,  and  on  the  25th,  when  he  read 
the  third  number  of  his  novel,  the  hand  was  still  swollen  and 
painful;  and  on  the  21st  of  March,  when  he  read  admirably  his 
fourth  number,  he  told  us  that  as  he  came  along,  walking  up  the 
length  of  Oxford-street,  the  same  incident  had  recurred  as  on  the 
day  of  a  former  dinner  with  us,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  read, 
all  the  way,  more  than  the  right-hand  half  of  the  names  over  the 
shops.  Yet  he  had  the  old  fixed  persuasion  that  this  was  rather 
the  effect  of  a  medicine  he  had  been  taking  than  of  any  grave 
cause,  and  he  still  strongly  believed  his  other  troubles  to  be  ex- 
clusively local.  Eight  days  later  he  wrote  :  *  My  uneasiness  and 
*■  hemorrhage,  after  having  quite  left  me,  as  I  supposed,  has  come 

*  back  with  an  aggravated  irritability  that  it  has  not  yet  displayed. 
Ante,  i.  198.    You  havc  no  idea  what  a  state  I  am  in  to-day  from  a  sudden 

'  violent  rush  of  it ;  and  yet  it  has  not  the  slightest  effect  on  my 
'  general  health  that  I  know  of.'  This  was  a  disorder  which 
troubled  him  in  his  earlier  life ;  and  during  the  last  five  years,  in 
his  intervals  of  suffering  from  other  causes,  it  had  from  time  to 
time  taken  aggravated  form. 
Lastap-         jjis  last  Dublic  appearances  were  in  April.    On  the  sth  he 

pen  ranees  a  x  x  j.  sj 

in  public.  the  chair  for  the  newsvendors,  whom  he  helped  with  a 

genial  address  in  which  even  his  apology  for  little  speaking  over- 
flowed with  irrepressible  humour.  He  would  try,  he  said,  like 
Falstaff,  '  but  with  a  modification  almost  as  large  as  himself,'  less 
to  speak  himself  than  to  be  the  cause  of  speaking  in  others. 
'  Much  in  this  manner  they  exhibit  at  the  door  of  a  snuff-shop 
'  the  efhgy  of  a  Highlander  with  an  empty  mull  in  his  hand,  who, 

*  apparently  having  taken  all  the  snuff  he  can  carry,  and  discharged 

*  all  the  sneezes  of  which  he  is  capable,  politely  invites  his  friends 

*  and  patrons  to  step  in  and  try  what  they  can  do  in  the  same 

*  line.'    On  the  30th  of  the  same  month  he  returned  thanks  for 


§1.] 


Last  Days, 


507 


*  Literature  '  at  the  Royal  Academy  dinner,  and  I  may  preface  my  London 
allusion  to  what  he  then  said  with  what  he  had  written  to  me  the  — 


day  before.    Three  days  earlier  Daniel  Maclise  had  passed  away. 

*  Like  you  at  Ely,  so  I  at  Higham,  had  the  shock  of  first  reading 

*  at  a  railway  station  of  the  death  of  our  old  dear  friend  and 

*  companion.    What  the  shock  would  be,  you  know  too  well.  It 

*  has  been  only  after  great  difficulty,  and  after  hardening  and 

*  steeling  myself  to  the  subject  by  at  once  thinking  of  it  and 

*  avoiding  it  in  a  strange  way,  that  I  have  been  able  to  get  any 

*  command  over  it  or  over  myself.    If  I  feel  at  the  time  that  I  Maciise. 

*  can  be  sure  of  the  necessary  composure,  I  shall  make  a  little 

*  reference  to  it  at  the  Academy  to-morrow.    I  suppose  you  won't 

*  be  there.'  *  The  reference  made  was  most  touching  and  manly. 
He  told  those  who  listened  that  since  he  first  entered  the  public 
lists,  a  very  young  man  indeed,  it  had  been  his  constant  fortune 
to  number  among  his  nearest  and  dearest  friends  members  of 
that  Academy  who  had  been  its  pride  ;  and  who  had  now,  one  by 
one,  so  dropped  from  his  side  that  he  was  grown  to  believe,  with 
the  Spanish  monk  of  whom  Wilkie  spoke,  that  the  only  realities 
around  him  were  the  pictures  which  he  loved,  and  all  the  moving 
life  but  a  shadow  and  a  dream.    *  For  many  years  I  was  one  of 

*  the  two  most  intimate  friends  and  most  constant  companions  of 

*  Mr.  Maclise,  to  whose  death  the  Prince  of  Wales  has  made 

*  allusion,  and  the  President  has  referred  with  the  eloquence  of 
'  genuine  feeling.    Of  his  genius  in  his  chosen  art,  I  will  venture 

*  to  say  nothing  here ;  but  of  his  fertility  of  mind  and  wealth  of 
*■  intellect  I  may  confidently  assert  that  they  would  have  made 
'  him,  if  he  had  been  so  minded,  at  least  as  great  a  writer  as  he 

*  I  preserve  also  the  closing  words  nected  with  the  public  work  on  which 

of  the  letter.   *It  is  very  strange — you  he  was  engaged  in  those  later  years, 

*  remember  I  suppose  ? — that  the  last  and  to  which  he  sacrificed  every  private 

*  time  we  spoke  of  him  together,  you  interest  of^  his  own.    His  was  only  the 

*  said  that  we  should  one  day  hear  that  common  fate  of  Englishmen,  so  en- 

*  the  wayward  life  into  which  he  had  gaged,  who  do  this  ;  and  when  the 

*  fallen  was  over,  and  there  an  end  of  story  of  the  '  Fresco-painting  for  the 

*  our  knowledge  of  it.'     The  way-  '  Houses  of  Parliament'  comes  to  be  ^"j.y"'* 
wardness,  which  was  merely  the  having  written,  it  will  be  another  chapter  added 
lately  withdrawn  himself  too  much  to  our  national  misadventures  and  re- 
from  old  friendly  intercourse,  had  its  proaches  in  everything  connected  with 

real  origin  in  disappointments  con-     'high'  Art  and  its  hapless  cultivators. 


5o8 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.    [Book  XII. 


London:  <  was  a  painter.  The  gentlest  and  most  modest  of  men,  the 
  *  freshest  as  to  his  generous  appreciation  of  young  aspirants  and 

*  the  frankest  and  largest  hearted  as  to  his  peers,  incapable  of  a 

*  sordid  or  ignoble  thought,  gallantly  sustaining  the  true  dignity 

*  of  his  vocation,  without  one  grain  of  self-ambition,  wholesomely 
Dickens's     '  natural  at  the  last  as  at  the  first,  "in  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a 

last  public 

words.        '  "  child," — no  artist  of  whatsoever  denomination,  I  make  bold 

*  to  say,  ever  went  to  his  rest  leaving  a  golden  memory  more 
'  pure  from  dross,  or  having  devoted  himself  with  a  truer 
'  chivalry  to  the  art-goddess  whom  he  worshipped.*  These  were 
the  last  public  words  of  Dickens,  and  he  could  not  have  spoken 
any  worthier  of  himself,  or  better  deserved  than  by  him  of  whom 
they  were  spoken. 

Upon  his  appearance  at  the  dinner  of  the  Academy  had  followed 
some  invitations  he  was  led  to  accept ;  greatly  to  his  own  regret, 
he  told  me  on  the  night  (7th  of  May)  when  he  read  to  us  the  fifth 
number  oi  Edwin  Drood ;  for  he  was  now  very  eager  to  get  back 
to  the  quiet  of  Gadshill.  He  dined  with  Mr.  Motley,  then 
American  minister;  had  met  Mr.  Disraeli  at  a  dinner  at  Lord 
Stanhope's  j  had  breakfasted  with  Mr.  Gladstone ;  and  on  the 
17th  was  to  attend  the  Queen's  ball  with  his  daughter.  But  she 
had  to  go  there  without  him ;  for  on  the  i6th  I  had  intimation  of 
a  sudden  disablement.  *  I  am  sorry  to  report,  that,  in  the  old 
'  preposterous  endeavour  to  dine  at  preposterous  hours  and  pre- 
Another      *  postcrous  places,  I  have  been  pulled  up  by  a  sharp  attack  in  my 

attack  in 

the  toot.      *  foot.    And  serve  me  right.    I  hope  to  get  the  better  of  it  soon, 

*  but  I  fear  I  must  not  think  of  dining  with  you  on  Friday.  I 
'  have  cancelled  everything  in  the  dining  way  for  this  week,  and 
'  that  is  a  very  small  precaution  after  the  horrible  pain  I  have  had 

*  and  the  remedies  I  have  taken.'  He  had  to  excuse  himself  also 
from  the  General  Theatrical  Fund  dinner,  where  the  Prince  of 
Wales  was  to  preside ;  but  at  another  dinner  a  week  later,  where 
the  King  of  the  Belgians  and  the  Prince  were  to  be  present,  so 
much  pressure  was  put  upon  him  that  he  went,  still  suffering  as 
he  was,  to  dine  with  Lord  Houghton. 

We  met  for  the  last  time  on  Sunday  the  22nd  of  May,  when  I 
dined  with  him  in  Hyde  Park  Place.    The  death  of  Mr.  Lemon, 


§  I.]  Last  Days,  509 

of  which  he  heard  that  day,  had  led  his  thoughts  to  the  crowd  of  London  : 

1870. 

friendly  companions  in  letters  and  art  who  had  so  fallen  from  the  

ranks  since  we  played  Ben  Jonson  together  that  we  were  left  meeting, 
almost  alone.    '  And  none  beyond  his  sixtieth  year/  he  said, 

*  very  few  even  fifty.'  It  is  no  good  to  talk  of  it,  I  suggested. 
'  We  shall  not  think  of  it  the  less '  was  his  reply ;  and  an  illus- 
tration much  to  the  point  was  before  us,  afforded  by  an  incident 
deserving  remembrance  in  his  story.  Not  many  weeks  before,  a 
correspondent  had  written  to  him  from  Liverpool  describing  him- 
self as  a  self-raised  man,  attributing  his  prosperous  career  to  what 
Dickens's  writings  had  taught  him  at  its  outset  of  the  wisdom  of 
kindness,  and  sympathy  for  others;  and  asking  pardon  for  the  Note- 
liberty  he  took  in  hoping  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  offer  incident, 
some  acknowledgment  of  what  not  only  had  cheered  and  stimu- 
lated him  through  all  his  life,  but  had  contributed  so  much  to  the 
success  of  it.  The  letter  enclosed  ;^5oo.  Dickens  was  greatly 
touched  by  this  ;  and  told  the  writer,  in  sending  back  his  cheque, 

that  he  would  certainly  have  taken  it  if  he  had  not  been,  though 
not  a  man  of  fortune,  a  prosperous  man  himself ;  but  that  the 
letter,  and  the  spirit  of  its  offer,  had  so  gratified  him,  that  if  the 
writer  pleased  to  send  him  any  small  memorial  of  it  in  another 
form  he  would  gladly  receive  it.  The  memorial  soon  came.  A 
richly  worked  basket  of  silver,  inscribed  '  from  one  who  has  been 

*  cheered  and  stimulated  by  Mr.  Dickens's  writings,  and  held  the 

*  author  among  his  first  remembrances  when  he  became  pros- 
'  perous,'  was  accompanied  by  an  extremely  handsome  silver 
centrepiece  for  the  table,  of  which  the  design  was  for  figures 
representing  the  Seasons.  But  the  kindly  donor  shrank  from 
sending  Winter  to  one  whom  he  would  fain  connect  with  none 
save  the  brighter  and  milder  days,  and  he  had  struck  the  fourth 
figure  from  the  design.    '  I  never  look  at  it,'  said  Dickens,  '  that 

*  I  don't  think  most  of  the  Winter.'    The  gift  had  yet  too  surely 
foreshadowed  the  truth,  for  the  winter  was  never  to  come  to  him. 

A  matter  discussed  that  day  with  Mr.  Ouvry  was  briefly  resumed 
in  a  note  of  the  29th  of  May,  the  last  I  ever  received  from  him ; 
which  followed  me  to  Exeter,  and  closed  thus.    '  You  and  I  can  Last  letter 

*  speak  of  it  at  Gads  by  and  by.    Foot  no  worse.    But  no  better.'  ^'"^ 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,      [Book  XI I. 


Gadshill:  The  old  trouble  was  upon  him  when  we  parted,  and  this  must 

 have  been  nearly  the  last  note  written  before  he  quitted  London. 

He  was  at  Gadshill  on  the  30th  of  May ;  and  I  heard  no  more 
until  the  telegram  reached  me  at  Launceston  on  the  night  of  the 
9th  of  June,  which  told  me  that  the  *  by  and  by '  was  not  to  come 
in  this  world. 

The  few  days  at  Gadshill  had  been  given  wholly  to  work  on 
his  novel.  He  had  been  easier  in  his  foot  and  hand ;  and, 
though  he  was  suffering  severely  from  the  local  hemorrhage 
before  named,  he  made  no  complaint  of  illness.  But  there  was 
observed  in  him  a  very  unusual  appearance  of  fatigue.  *  He 
Last  days.  <■  seemed  very  weary.'  He  was  out  with  his  dogs  for  the  last  time 
on  Monday  the  6th  of  June,  when  he  walked  with  his  letters  into 
Rochester.  On  Tuesday  the  7th,  after  his  daughter  Mary  had 
left  on  a  visit  to  her  sister  Kate,  not  finding  himself  equal  to 
much  fatigue,  he  drove  to  Cobham-wood  with  his  sister-in-law 
there  dismissed  the  carriage,  and  walked  round  the  park  and 
back.  He  returned  in  time  to  put  up  in  his  new  conservatory 
some  Chinese  lanterns  sent  from  London  that  afternoon ;  and, 
the  whole  of  the  evening,  he  sat  with  Miss  Hogarth  in  the  dining- 
room  that  he  might  see  their  effect  when  lighted.  More  than 
once  he  then  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  having  finally  abandoned 
all  intention  of  exchanging  Gadshill  for  London  ;  and  this  he  had 
done  more  impressively  some  days  before.  While  he  lived,  he 
said,  he  should  wish  his  name  to  be  more  and  more  associated 
with  the  place ;  and  he  had  a  notion  that  when  he  died  he  should 
like  to  lie  in  the  little  graveyard  belonging  to  the  Cathedral  at  the 
foot  of  the  Castle  wall. 

On  the  8th  of  June  he  passed  all  the  day  writing  in  the  Chalet. 
He  came  over  for  luncheon ;  and,  much  against  his  usual  custom, 
returned  to  his  desk.  Of  the  sentences  he  was  then  writing,  the 
last  of  his  long  Hfe  of  literature,  a  portion  has  been  given  in 
facsimile  on  a  previous  page ;  and  the  reader  will  observe  with  a 
painful  interest,  not  alone  its  evidence  of  minute  labour  at  this 
Thoughts  fast-closing  hour  of  time  with  him,  but  the  direction  his  thoughts 
day  of  con-  had  taken.    He  imagines  such  a  brilliant  morning  as  had  risen 

scioustjess. 

with  that  eighth  of  June  shinmg  on  the  old  city  of  Rochester. 


§  I.]  Last  Days.  5 1 1 

Ke  sees  in  surpassing  beauty,  with  the  lusty  ivy  gleaming  in  the  Gadshill: 

1870. 

sun,  and  the  rich  trees  waving  in  the  balmy  air,  its  antiquities  and  

its  ruins ;  its  Cathedral  and  Castle.  But  his  fancy,  then,  is  not 
with  the  stern  dead  forms  of  either ;  but  with  that  which  makes 
warm  the  cold  stone  tombs  of  centuries,  and  hghts  them  up  with 
flecks  of  brightness,  *  fluttering  there  like  wings.'  To  him,  on 
that  sunny  summer  morning,  the  changes  of  glorious  light  from 
moving  boughs,  the  songs  of  birds,  the  scents  from  garden,  woods, 
and  fields,  have  penetrated  into  the  Cathedral,  have  subdued  its 
earthy  odour,  and  are  preaching  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life. 


He  was  late  in  leaving  the  Chalet ;  but  before  dinner,  which  Wednesday 

evening, 

was  ordered  at  six  o'clock  with  the  intention  of  walking  after-  sth  cf 

°  June. 

wards  in  the  lanes,  he  wrote  some  letters,  among  them  one  to  his 
friend  Mr.  Charles  Kent  appointing  to  see  him  in  London  next 
day ;  and  dinner  was  begun  before  Miss  Hogarth  saw,  with  alarm, 
a  singular  expression  of  trouble  and  pain  in  his  face.  *  For  an 
*  hour,'  he  then  told  her,  *  he  had  been  very  ill ; '  but  he  wished 
dinner  to  go  on.  These  were  the  only  really  coherent  words 
uttered  by  him.  They  were  followed  by  some,  that  fell  from  him 
disconnectedly,  of  quite  other  matters ;  of  an  approaching  sale  at 
a  neighbour's  house,  of  whether  Macready's  son  was  with  his 
father  at  Cheltenham,  and  of  his  own  intention  to  go  immediately 
to  London ;  but  at  these  latter  he  had  risen,  and  his  sister-in-law's 
help  alone  prevented  him  from  falling  where  he  stood.  Her 
effort  then  was  to  get  him  on  the  sofa,  but  after  a  slight  struggle 
he  sank  heavily  on  his  left  side.  *  On  the  ground '  were  the  last  The  close, 
words  he  spoke.  It  was  now  a  little  over  ten  minutes  past  six 
o'clock.  His  two  daughters  came  that  night  with  Mr.  F.  Beard, 
who  had  also  been  telegraphed  for,  and  whom  they  met  at  the 
station.  His  eldest  son  arrived  early  next  morning,  and  was 
joined  in  the  evening  (too  late)  by  his  younger  son  from  Cam- 
bridge. All  possible  medical  aid  had  been  summoned.  The 
surgeon  of  the  neighbourhood  was  there  from  the  first,  and  a 
physician  from  London  was  in  attendance  as  well  as  Mr.  Beard. 
But  human  help  was  unavailing.  There  was  effusion  on  the 
brain ;  and  though  stertorous  breathing  continued  all  night,  and 


512 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.  [BookXII. 


^adshill:  until  ten  minutes  past  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  Thursday  the 
9th  of  June,  there  had  never  been  a  gleam  of  hope  during  the 

Ante,  490.  °  10 

twenty-four  hours.  He  had  lived  four  months  beyond  his  58th 
year. 


II. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
The  excitement  and  sorrow  at  his  death  are  within  the  memory 
of  all.  Before  the  news  of  it  even  reached  the  remoter  parts  of 
England,  it  had  been  flashed  across  Europe ;  was  known  in  the 
distant  continents  of  India,  Australia,  and  America ;  and  not  in 
English-speaking  communities  only,  but  in  every  country  of  the 
civilised  earth,  had  awakened  grief  and  sympathy.  In  his  own 
land  it  was  as  if  a  personal  bereavement  had  befallen  every  one. 
Her  Majesty  the  Queen  telegraphed  from  Balmoral  '  her  deepest 
*  regret  at  the  sad  news  of  Charles  Dickens's  death  ; '  and  this  was 
the  sentiment  alike  of  all  classes  of  her  people.  There  was  not 
an  English  journal  that  did  not  give  it  touching  and  noble 
utterance ;  and  the  Times  took  the  lead  in  suggesting  *  that  the 
only  fit  resting-place  for  the  remains  of  a  man  so  dear  to  England 
was  the  Abbey  in  which  the  most  illustrious  Englishmen  are  said. 


*  It  is  a  duty  to  quote  these  eloquent 
words.    *  Statesmen,  men  of  science, 

*  philanthropists,    the  acknowledged 

*  benefactors  of  their  race,  might  pass 
iothandi3th  '  ^way,  and  yet  not  leave  the  void 
of  June.        '  which  will  be  caused  by  the  death  of 

*  Dickens.     They  may  have  earned 

*  the  esteem  of  mankind  ;  their  days 

*  may  have  been  passed  in  power, 

*  honour,  and  prosperity  ;  they  may 

*  have  been  surrounded  by  troops  of 

*  friends  ;  but,  however  pre-eminent 

*  in  station,  ability,  or  public  services, 
'  they  will  not  have  been,  like  our 
'  great  and  genial  novelist,  the  inti- 
'  mate  of  every  household.  Indeed, 
'  such  a  position  is  attained  not  even 
'  by  one  man  in  an  age.    It  needs  an 

*  extraordinary  combination  of  intel- 


*  lectual  and  moral  qualities  .  .  before 
'  the  world  will  thus  consent  to  en- 

*  throne  a  man  as  their  unassailable 

*  and  enduring  favourite.    This  is  the 

*  position  which  Mr.  Dickens  has  occu- 

*  pied  vdth  the  English  and  also  with 

*  the  American  public  for  the  third  of 

*  a  century.  .  .  Westminster  Abbey 

*  is  the  peculiar  resting-place  of  Eng- 

*  lish  literary  genius  ;  and  among  those 
'  whose  sacred  dust  lies  there,  or 
'  whose  names  are  recorded  on  the 

*  walls,  very  few  are  more  worthy  than 
'  Charles  Dickens  of  such  a  home. 

*  Fewer  still,  we  believe,  will  be  re- 
'  garded  with  more  honour  as  time 

passes  and  his  greatness  grows  upon 
♦us.' 


THE  GRAVE. 


:.u]II)f>';   .  ■  1  AP.!/rA.TT  ,S;HAL1. 


Westminster  Abbey. 


513 


own 
wish. 


With  the  expression  thus  given  to  a  general  wish,  the  Dean  of  London  : 

1870 

Westminster  lost  no  time  in  showing  ready  compliance  :  and  on  

^       ^       Wish  to 

the  morning  of  the  day  when  it  appeared  was  in  communication  ^^jy^^'™ 
with  the  family  and  the  executors.  The  public  homage  of  a  Abbey, 
burial  in  the  Abbey  had  to  be  reconciled  with  his  own  instruc- 
tions to  be  privately  buried  without  previous  announcement  of 
time  or  place,  and  without  monument  or  memorial.  He  would 
himself  have  preferred  to  lie  in  the  small  graveyard  under  ^is 
Rochester  Castle  wall,  or  in  the  little  churches  of  Cobham  or 
Shorne ;  but  all  these  were  found  to  be  closed ;  and  the  desire  of 
the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Rochester  to  lay  him  in  their  Cathedral 
had  been  entertained,  when  the  Dean  of  Westminster's  request, 
and  the  considerate  kindness  of  his  generous  assurance  that  there 
should  be  only  such  ceremonial  as  would  strictly  obey  all  injunc- 
tions of  privacy,  made  it  a  grateful  duty  to  accept  that  offer.  The 
spot  already  had  been  chosen  by  the  Dean  ;  and  before  midday  '.rhe  Burial, 
on  the  following  morning,  Tuesday  the  14th  of  June,  with  know- 
ledge of  those  only  who  took  part  in  the  burial,  all  was  done. 
The  solemnity  had  not  lost  by  the  simplicity.  Nothing  so  grand 
or  so  touching  could  have  accompanied  it,  as  the  stillness  and  the 
silence  of  the  vast  Cathedral.  Then,  later  in  the  day  and  all  the 
following  day,  came  unbidden  mourners  in  such  crowds,  that  the 
Dean  had  to  request  permission  to  keep  open  the  grave  until 
Thursday ;  but  after  it  was  closed  they  did  not  cease  to  come,  and  unbidden 
'  all  day  long,'  Doctor  Stanley  wrote  on  the  17th,  '  there  was  a 

*  constant  pressure  to  the  spot,  and  many  flowers  were  strewn 
'  upon  it  by  unknown  hands,  many  tears  shed  from  unknown  eyes.* 
He  alluded  to  this  in  the  impressive  funeral  discourse  delivered  by 
him  in  the  Abbey  on  the  morning  of  Sunday  the  19th,  pointing 
to  the  fresh  flowers  that  then  had  been  newly  thrown  (as  they 
still  are  thrown,  in  this  fourth  year  after  the  death),  and  saying 
that  '  the  spot  would  thenceforward  be  a  sacred  one  with  both 
'  the  New  World  and  the  Old,  as  that  of  the  representative  of  the 

*  literature,  not  of  this  island  only,  but  of  all  who  speak  our 

*  English  tongue.'    The  stone  placed  upon  it  is  inscribed 

Charles  Dickens. 
Born  February  the  Seventh  1812.    Died  June  the  Ninth  1870. 

VOL.  II,  L  L 


mourners. 


514 


The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.   [Book  xil. 


London:      The  highest  associations  of  both  the  arts  he  loved  surround  him 
187a  ^ 

 where  he  hes.    Next  to  him  is  Richard  Cumberland.  Mrs. 

The  Grave.  Pritchard*s  monument  looks  down  upon  him,  and  immediately 
behind  is  David  Garrick's.  Nor  is  the  actor's  delightful  art 
more  worthily  represented  than  the  nobler  genius  of  the  author. 
Facing  the  grave,  and  on  its  left  and  right,  are  the  monuments  of 
Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and  Dryden,  the  three  immortals  who 
did  most  to  create  and  settle  the  language  to  which  Charles 
Dickens  has  given  another  undying  name. 


APPENDIX. 


1. 

THE  WRITINGS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 

PUBLISHED  DURING  THE  PERIOD  COMPRISED  IN  THIS 
SECOND  VOLUME. 

1847. 

Dealings  with  the  Firm  of  Dombey  and  Son.     (Twelve  numbers 
published  monthly  durhig  the  year.)    Bradbury  &  Evans. 

First  Cheap  Issue  of  the  Works  of  Charles  Dickens.  An  Edition, 
printed  in  double  columns,  and  issued  in  weekly  three- halfpenny  numbers. 
The  first  number,  being  the  first  of  Pickivick^  was  issued  in  April  1847  ; 
and  the  volume  containing  that  book,  with  preface  dated  September  1847, 
was  published  in  October.  New  prefaces  were  for  the  most  part  prefixed 
to  each  story,  and  each  volume  had  a  frontispiece.  The  first  series 
(issued  by  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall,  and  closing  in  September  1852) 
comprised  Pickwick,  Nickleby,  Curiosity  Shop,  Bamaby  Rudge,  Chuzzle- 
wit,  Oliver  Twist,  American  Notes,  Sketches  by  Boz,  and  Christmas 
Books.  The  second  (issued  by  Messrs.  Bradbury  &  Evans,  and  closing 
in  1 861)  contained  Dombey  and  Son,  David  Copperfield,  Bleak  House, 
and  Little  Dorrit.  The  third,  issued  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  has 
since  included  Great  Expectations  (1863),  Tale  of  Two  Cities  (1864), 
Hard  Times  and  Pictures  from  Italy  (1865),  Uncommercial  Traveller 
(1865),  and  Our  Mutual  Friend  (1867).  Among  the  Illustrators  employed 
for  the  Frontispieces  were  Leslie,  R.A. ,  Webster  R.  A.,  Stanfield  R.A., 
George  Cattermole,  George  Cruikshank,  Frank  Stone  A.R.A.,  John 
Leech,  Marcus  Stone,  and  Hablot  Browne.    See  i.  517.  ii.  18. 

1848. 

Dealings  with  the  Firm  of  Dombey  and  Son  :  Wholesale,  Retail, 
and  for  Exportation.  (Five  numbers  issued  monthly,  the  last  being 
a  double  number,  from  January  to  April ;  in  which  latter  month  the 
complete  work  was  published  with  dedication  to  Lady  Normanby  and 
preface  dated  Devonshire-terrace,  24th  of  March.)  Bradbury  &  Evans, 
i-  355  ;  358  ;  449 ;  457  ;  473  ;  482  ;  484-5  J  523-4.       23-46  ;  344- 

The  Haunted  Man  and  the  Ghost's  Bargain.    A  Fancy  for  Christmas 

L  L  2 


5i6 


Appendix. 


Time.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Stanfield  R.  A.,  John  Tenniel, 
Frank  Stone  A.R.A.,  and  John  Leech.  Bradbuiy  &  Evans,  i.  484. 
ii.  18-19  ;  58  ;  73-76  ;  99. 

i349- 

The  Personal  History  of  David  Copperfield.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
With  Illustrations  by  Hablot  Browne.  (Eight  parts  issued  monthly  from 
May  to  December.)    Bradbury  &  Evans. 

1850. 

The  Personal  History  of  David  Copperfield,  By  Charles  Dickens. 
Illustrated  by  Hablot  Browne.  (Twelve  numbers  issued  monthly,  the 
last  being  a  double  number,  from  January  to  November ;  in  which  latter 
month  the  completed  work  was  published,  with  inscription  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Watson  of  Rockingham,  and  preface  dated  October.)  Bradbury 
&  Evans,  i.  355.  ii.  60;  68-9;  76;  95-7;  IIO-12  ;  117;  120-34; 
346-7. 

Household  Words.  On  Saturday  the  30th  of  March  in  this  year  the  weekly 
serial  of  HOUSEHOLD  Words  was  begun,  and  was  carried  on  uninter- 
ruptedly to  the  28th  of  May  1859,  when,  its  place  having  been  meanwhile 
taken  by  the  serial  in  the  same  form  still  existing.  Household  Words 
was  discontinued,    i.  429-31.    ii.  78-83  ;  281  ;  472-8. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  Christmas.  To  this  Dickens 
contributed  A  Christmas  Tree. 

1851. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  What  Christmas  is.  To 
this  Dickens  contributed  What  Christmas  is  as  we  grow  older. 

1852. 

Bleak  House.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  Illustrations  by  Hablot 
Browne.  (Ten  numbers,  issued  monthly,  from  March  to  December.) 
Bradbury  &  Evans. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  Stories  for  Christmas. 
To  this  Dickens  contributed  The  Poor  Relation's  Story  and  The 
Child's  Story. 

1853. 

Bleak  House.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Hablot  Browne.  (Ten 
numbers  issued  monthly,  the  last  being  a  double  number,  from  January 
to  September,  in  which  latter  month,  with  dedication  to  his  *  Com- 
'panions  in  the  Guild  of  Literature  and  Art,'  and  preface  dated  in 
August,  the  completed  book  was  published.)   Bradbury  &  Evans,    ii.  26  j 

123-5 ;  137-44  ;  153-4;  344- 


The  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens,  517 


A  Child's  History  of  England.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Three  vols. 
With  frontispieces  from  designs  by  F.  W.  Topham.  (Reprinted  from 
Household  Words,  where  it  appeared  between  the  dates  of  the  25th  of 
January  185 1  and  the  loth  of  December  1853.  It  was  published  first  in 
a  complete  form  with  dedication  to  his  own  children,  in  1854.)  Bradbury 
&  Evans,    ii.  153. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  Christmas  Stories.  To 
this  Dickens  contributed  The  School  Boy's  Story,  and  Nobody's 
Story. 

1854. 

Hard  Times.  For  these  Times.  By  Charles  Dickens.  (This  tale 
appeared  in  weekly  portions  in  Household  Words,  between  the  dates  of 
the  1st  of  April  and  the  12th  of  August  1854  ;  in  which  latter  month 
it  was  published  complete,  with  inscription  to  Thomas  Carlyle.)  Brad- 
bury &  Evans,    ii.  145-8. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  The  Seven  Poor  Travellers. 
To  this  Dickens  contributed  three  chapters.  I.  In  the  Old  City  of 
Rochester  ;  II.  The  Story  of  Richard  Doubledick  ;  III.  Thk 
Road.    ii.  221. 

1855. 

Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Hablot  Browne,  The 
first  number  published  in  December.    Bradbury  &  Evans. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words,  The  Holly-Tree.  To  this 
Dickens  contributed  three  branches.  I.  Myself  ;  II.  The  Boots  ; 
III.  The  Bill.    iL  221. 

1856. 

Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Hablot  Browne, 
(Twelve  numbers  issued  monthly,  between  January  and  December.) 
Bradbury  &  Evans. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  The  Wreck  of  the  Golden 
Mary.  To  this  Dickens  contributed  the  leading  chapter  :  The  Wreck. 
ii.  468. 

1857. 

Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Hablot  Browne. 
(Seven  numbers  issued  monthly,  the  last  being  a  double  number,  from 
January  to  June,  in  which  latter  month  the  tale  was  published  complete, 
with  preface,  and  dedication  to  Clarkson  Stanfield. )  Bradbury  &  Evans, 
ii.  160-1 ;  177;  190;  221-9;  371-3- 

The  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  in  Household  Words  for 
October.  To  the  first  part  of  these  papers  Dickens  contributed  all  up 
to  the  top  of  the  second  column  of  page  316  ;  to  the  second  part,  all 
up  to  the  white  line  in  the  second  column  of  page  340  ;  to  the  third  pari, 


A  pp^ndix. 


all  except  the  reflections  of  Mr.  Idle  (363-5)  ;  and  the  whole  of  the 
fourth  part.  All  the  rest  was  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  ii.  233-7  »  348' 
Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  The  Perils  of  Certain 
English  Prisoners.  To  this  Dickens  contributed  the  chapters 
entitled  The  Island  of  Silver-Store,  and  The  Rafts  on  the 
River. 

The  First  Library  Edition  of  the  Works  of  Charles  Dickens. 
The  first  volume,  with  dedication  to  John  Forster,  was  issued  in  De- 
cember 1857,  and  the  volumes  appeared  monthly  up  to  the  24th,  issued 
in  November  1859.  The  later  books  and  writings  have  been  added  in 
subsequent  volumes,  and  an  edition  has  also  been  issued  wdth  the  illus- 
trations. To  the  second  volume  of  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  as  issued  in 
this  edition,  were  added  31  *  Reprinted  Pieces'  taken  from  Dickens's 
papers  in  Household  Words  ;  which  have  since  appeared  also  in  other 
collected  editions.    Chapman  &  Hall.    ii.  279. 

Authorized  French  Translation  of  the  Works  of  Dickens.  Trans- 
lations of  Dickens  exist  in  every  European  language  ;  but  the  only  version 
of  his  writings  in  a  foreign  tongue  authorized  by  him,  or  for  which  he 
received  anything,  was  undertaken  in  Paris.  Nickleby  was  the  first  story 
published,  and  to  it  was  prefixed  an  address  from  Dickens  to  the  French 
public  dated  from  Tavistock -house  the  17th  January  1857.  Hachette. 
ii.  194;  197;  215  note. 

1858. 

Christmas  Number  of  Household  Words.  A  House  to  Let.  To  this 
Dickens  contributed  the  chapter  entitled  *  Going  into  Society.'  ii, 
290;  296. 

1859. 

All  the  Year  Round,  the  weekly  serial  which  took  the  place  of  House- 
hold Words.  Began  on  the  30th  of  April  in  this  year,  went  on  un- 
interruptedly until  Dickens's  death,  and  is  continued  under  the  manage- 
ment of  his  son.    ii.  281-292  ;  452  ;  472-8. 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Illustrated  by  Hablot 
Browne.  This  tale  was  printed  in  weekly  portions  in  All  the  Year  Round 
between  the  dates  of  the  30th  of  April  and  the  26th  of  November  1859  ; 
appearing  also  concurrently  in  monthly  numbers  with  illustrations,  from 
June  to  December ;  when  it  was  published  complete  with  dedication  to 
Lord  John  Russell,    ii.  284  ;  350-5  ;  373. 

Christmas  Number  oi  All  the  Year  Round.  The  Haunted  House.  To 
which  Dickens  contributed  two  chapters.  I.  The  Mortals  in  the 
House  ;  II.  The  Ghost  in  Master  B's  Room.   ii.  287. 

i860. 


Hunted  Down.  A  Story  in  two  Portions.  (Written  for  an  American 
newspaper,  and  reprinted  in  the  numbers  of  All  ike  Year  Round  for  the 
4th  and  the  iith  of  August.)    ii.  291  ;  373. 


The  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens,  519 


The  Uncommercial  Traveller.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Seventeen 
papers,  which  had  appeared  under  this  title  between  the  dates  of  28th 
of  January  and  13th  of  October  i860  in  All  the  Year  Round.,  were 
published  at  the  close  of  the  year,  in  a  volume,  with  preface  dated 
December.  A  later  impression  was  issued  in  1868,  as  a  volume  of  what 
was  called  the  Charles  Dickens  Edition  ;  when  eleven  fresh  papers, 
written  in  the  interval,  were  added ;  and  promise  was  given,  in  a 
preface  dated  December  1868,  of  the  Uncommercial  Traveller's  intention 
•to  take  to  the  road  again  before  another  winter  sets  in.'  Between 
that  date  and  the  autumn  of  1869,  when  the  last  of  his  detached  papers 
were  written,  All  the  Year  Round  published  seven  *  New  Uncommercial 

*  Samples '  which  have  not  yet  been  collected.  Their  titles  were,  i. 
Aboard  Ship  (which  opened,  on  the  5th  of  December  1868,  the  New 
Series  of  All  the  Year  Round) ;  ii.  A  Small  Star  in  the  East ;  iii.  A 
Little  Dinner  in  an  Hour  ;  iv.  Mr.  Barlow  ;  v.  On  an  Amateur  Beat ; 
vi.  A  Fly-leaf  in  a  Life  ;  vii.  A  Plea  for  Total  Abstinence.  The  date 
of  the  last  was  the  5th  of  June  1869  ;  and  on  the  24th  of  July  appeared 
his  last  piece  of  writing  for  the  serial  he  had  so  long  conducted,  a  paper 
entitled  Landor's  Life.    ii.  287-91. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round,  A  Message  from  the  Sea. 
To  which  Dickens  contributed  nearly  all  the  first,  and  the  whole  of  the 
second  and  the  last  chapter :  The  Village,  The  Money,  and  The 
Restitution  ;  the  two  intervening  chapters,  though  also  wdth  insertions 
from  his  hand,  not  being  his. 

Great  Expectations.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Begun  in  All  the  Year 
Round  on  the  ist  of  December,  and  continued  weekly  to  the  close  of 
that  year. 

1861. 

Great  Expectations.  By  Charles  Dickens.  Resumed  on  the  5th  of 
January  and  issued  in  weekly  portions,  closing  on  the  3rd  of  August, 
when  the  complete  story  was  published  in  three  volumes  and  inscribed 
to  Chauncy  Hare  Townshend.  In  the  following  year  it  was  published 
in  a  single  volume,  illustrated  by  Mr.  Marcus  Stone.  Chapman  & 
Hall.    ii.  286  ;  295  ;  296  (the  words  there  used  *  on  Great  Expectations 

*  closing  in  June  1861  *  refer  to  the  time  when  the  Writing  of  it  was 
closed  :  it  did  not  close  in  the  Publication  until  August,  as  above  stated), 
ii.  355-61. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground. 
To  which  Dickens  contributed  three  of  the  seven  chapters.  1.  Picking 
up  Soot  and  Cinders  ;  IL  Picking  up  Miss  Kimmeens  ;  lU. 
Picking  up  the  Tinker,   ii.  286. 

1862. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Somebody's  Luggage.  To 
which  Dickens  contributed  four  chapters.  I.  His  Leaving  it  till 
CALLED  for;  IL  His  BooTS ;  III.  His  Brown-paper  Parcel; 
IV.  His  Wonderful  End.  To  the  chapter  of  His  Umbrella  he  also 
contributed  a  portion,    ii  348 ;  362. 


520 


A ppendix. 


Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings. 
To  which  Dickens  contributed  the  first  and  the  last  chapter.  I.  How 
Mrs.  Lirriper  carried  on  the  Business  ;  II.  How  the  Parlouks 

ADDED  A  few  WoRDS.     ii.  362. 

1864. 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  Illustrations  by  Marcus 
Stone.  Eight  numbers  issued  monthly  between  May  and  December. 
Chapman  &  Hall. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Legacy  : 
to  which  Dickens  contributed  the  first  and  the  last  chapter.  I.  Mrs. 
Lirriper  relates  how  she  went  on,  and  went  over  ;  II.  Mrs. 
Lirriper  relates  now  Jemmy  topped  up.    ii.  362. 

1865. 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  Illustrations  by 
Marcus  Stone.  In  Two  Volumes.  (Two  more  numbers  issued  in 
January  and  February,  when  the  first  volume  was  published,  with  dedica- 
tion to  Sir  James  Emerson  Tennent.  The  remaining  ten  numbers,  the 
last  being  a  double  number,  were  issued  between  March  and  November, 
when  the  complete  work  was  published  in  two  volumes.)  Chapman  & 
Hall.    ii.  304 ;  363-8  ;  374. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Doctor  Marigold's  Pre- 
scriptions. To  this  Dickens  contributed  three  portions.  I.  To  be 
Taken  Immediately  ;  II.  To  be  taken  for  Life  ;  III.  The  portion 
with  the  title  of  To  be  Taken  with  a  Grain  of  Salt,  describing  a  Trial 
for  Murder,  was  also  his.    ii.  369. 

1866. 

Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  Mugby  Junction.  To  this 
Dickens  contributed  four  papers.  I.  Barbox  Brothers  ;  II.  Barbox 
Brothers  and  Co.  ;  III.  Main  Line — The  Boy  at  Mugby  ;  IV. 
No.  I.  Branch  Line— The  Signal-man.    ii.  369. 

1867. 

The  Charles  Dickens  Edition.  This  collected  edition,  which  had  ori- 
ginated with  the  American  publishing  firm  of  Ticknor  and  Fields,  was 
issued  here  between  the  dates  of  1868  and  1870,  with  dedication  to  John 
Forster,  beginning  with  Pickwick  in  May  1867,  and  closing  with  the 
Child's  History  in  July  1870.  The  Reprinted  Pieces  were  with  the 
volume  of  American  Notes,  and  the  Pictures  from  Italy  closed  the 
volume  containing  Hard  Times.    Chapman  &  Flail. 


The  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens.        5  2  i 


Christmas  Number  of  All  the  Year  Round.  No  Thoroughfare.  To 
this  Dickens  contributed,  with  Mr,  Wilkie  Collins,  in  nearly  equal  por- 
tions. With  the  new  series  of  All  the  Year  Round,  which  began  on 
the  5th  of  December  1868,  Dickens  discontinued  the  issue  of  Christmas 
Numbers,    ii.  369. 

1868. 

A  Holiday  Romance.  George  Silverman's  Explanation.  Written 
respectively  for  a  Child's  Magazine,  and  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  pub- 
lished in  America  by  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields.  Republished  in  All 
the  Year  Round  on  the  25th  of  January  and  the  1st  and  8th  of  February 
1868.    ii.  323  ;  370. 

1870. 

The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood.  By  Charles  Dickens,  with  twelve  illus- 
trations by  S.  L.  Fildes.  (Meant  to  have  comprised  twelve  monthly 
numbers,  but  prematurely  closed  by  the  writer's  death  in  June.)  Issued 
in  six  monthly  numbers,  between  April  and  September.  Chapman  & 
Hall.    ii.  451-63. 

1871-1872-1873. 

The  Present  Life  of  Charles  Dickens  appeared  originally  in  three 
volumes,  of  which  the  first  was  published  in  November  1871,  the  second 
in  November  1872,  and  the  third  in  December  1873, 


Appendix. 


II. 

THE  WILL  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

*  I,  Charles  Dickens,  of  Gadshill  Place,  Higham  in  the  county  of  Kent, 

*  hereby  revoke  all  my  former  Wills  and  Codicils  and  declare  this  to  be  my 

*  last  Will  and  Testament.     I  give  the  sum  of  £\ooo  free  of  legacy  duty  to 

*  Miss  Ellen  Lawless  Teman,  late  of  Houghton  Place,  Ampthill  Square,  in 
'  the  county  of  Middlesex.  I  give  the  sum  of  £\f)  19  o  to  my  faithful  servant 
'  Mrs.  Anne  Cornelius.    I  give  the  sum  of         19  o  to  the  daughter  and 

*  only  chUd  of  the  said  Mrs.  Anne  Cornelius.    I  GIVE  the  sum  of  £\<^  19  o 

*  to  each  and  every  domestic  servant,  male  and  female,  who  shall  be  in  my 

*  employment  at  the  time  of  my  decease,  and  shall  have  been  in  my  employ- 

*  ment  for  a  not  less  period  of  time  than  one  year.    I  GIVE  the  sum  of  ;^icxx> 

*  free  of  legacy  duty  to  my  daughter  Mary  Dickens.    I  also  give  to  my  said 

*  daughter  an  annuity  of  ^300  a  year,  during  her  life,  if  she  shall  so  long  con- 

*  tinue  unmarried  ;  such  annuity  to  be  considered  as  accruing  from  day  to  day, 
'  but  to  be  payable  half  yearly,  the  first  of  such  half-yearly  payments  to  be 
'  made  at  the  expiration  of  six  months  next  after  my  decease.    If  my  said 

*  daughter  Mary  shall  marry,  such  annuity  shall  cease  ;  and  in  that  case,  but 

*  in  that  case  only,  my  said  daughter  shall  share  with  my  other  children  in  the 
'  provision  hereinafter  made  for  them,    I  give  to  my  dear  sister-in  law 

*  Georgina  Hogarth  the  sum  of  ;^8ooo  free  of  legacy  duty.  I  also  give  to  the 
'  said  Georgina  Hogarth  all  my  personal  jewellery  not  hereinafter  mentioned, 

*  and  all  the  little  familiar  objects  from  my  writing-table  and  my  room,  and 

*  she  will  know  what  to  do  with  those  things.     I  also  give  to  the  said 

*  Georgina  Hogarth  all  my  private  papers  whatsoever  and  wheresoever,  and  I 

*  leave  her  my  grateful  blessing  as  the  best  and  truest  friend  man  ever  had,  I 

*  give  to  my  eldest  son  Charles  my  library  of  printed  books,  and  my  engrav- 

*  ings  and  prints  j  and  I  also  give  to  my  son  Charles  the  silver  salver  pre- 

*  sented  to  me  at  Birmingham,  and  the  silver  cup  presented  to  me  at  Edin- 
'  burgh,  and  my  shirt  studs,  shirt  pins,  and  sleeve  buttons.   And  I  bequeath 

*  unto  my  said  son  Charles  and  my  son  Henry  Fielding  Dickens,  the  sum  of 

*  ;^8ooo  upon  trust  to  invest  the  same,  and  from  time  to  time  to  vary  the  in- 

*  vestments  thereof,  and  to  pay  the  annual  income  thereof  to  my  wife  during 

*  her  life,  and  after  her  decease  the  said  sum  of  ;^8ooo  and  the  investments 

*  thereof  shall  be  in  trust  for  my  children  (but  subject  as  to  my  daughter  Mary 

*  to  the  proviso  hereinbefore  contained)  wiio  being  a  son  or  sons  shail  have 

*  attained  or  shall  attain  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,'  or  being  a  daughter  or 

*  daughters  shall  have  attained  or  shall  attain  that  age  or  be  previously  married, 

*  in  equal  shares  if  more  than  one.    I  GIVE  my  watch  (the  gold  repeater  pre- 

*  sented  to  me  at  Coventry),  and  I  give  the  chains  and  seals  and  all  appendages 

*  I  have  worn  with  it,  to  my  dear  and  trusty  friend  John  Forster,  of  Palace  Gate 

*  House,  Kensington,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex  aforesaid ;  and  I  also  give  to 


The  Will  of  Charles  Dickens.  523 


*  the  said  John  Forstersuch  manuscripts  of  my  published  works  as  maybe  in  my 

*  possession  at  the  time  of  my  decease.  And  I  devise  and  bequeath  all  my 
'  real  and  personal  estate  (except  such  as  is  vested  in  me  as  a  trustee  or  mort- 
'  gagee)  unto  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  the  said  John  Forster,  their 

*  heirs,  executors,  administrators,  and  assigns  respectively,  upon  trust  that  they 

*  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  John  Forster,  or  the  survivor  of  them  or  the 

*  executors  or  administrators  of  such  survivor,  do  and  shall,  at  their,  his,  or  her 

*  uncontrolled  and  irresponsible  direction,  either  proceed  to  an  immediate  sale 

*  or  conversion  into  money  of  the  said  real  and  personal  estate  (including  my 
'  copyrights),  or  defer  and  postpone  any  sale  or  conversion  into  money,  till 
'  such  time  or  times  as  they,  he,  or  she  shall  think  fit,  and  in  the  meantime 

*  may  manage  and  let  the  said  real  and  personal  estate  (including  my  copy- 
'  rights),  in  such  manner  in  all  respects  as  I  myself  could  do,  if  I  vv^ere  living 

*  and  acting  therein ;  it  being  my  intention  that  the  trustees  or  trustee  for  the 
'  time  being  of  this  my  Will  shall  have  the  fullest  power  over  the  said  real  and 

*  personal  estate  which  I  can  give  to  them,  him,  or  her.    And  I  declare 

*  that,  until  the  said  real  and  personal  estate  shall  be  sold  and  converted  into 

*  money,  the  rents  and  annual  income  thereof  respectively  shall  be  paid  and 
'  applied  to  the  person  or  persons  in  the  manner  and  for  the  purposes  to  whom 
'  and  for  which  the  annual  income  of  the  monies  to  arise  from  the  sale  or  con- 

*  version  thereof  into  money  would  be  payable  or  applicable  under  this  my 
'  Will  in  case  the  same  were  sold  or  converted  into  money.    And  I  declare 

*  that  my  real  estate  shall  for  the  purposes  of  this  my  Will  be  considered  as 
'  converted  into  personalty  upon  my  decease.    And  I  declare  that  the  said 

*  trustees  or  trustee  for  the  time  being,  do  and  shall,  with  and  out  of  the 

*  monies  which  shall  come  to  their,  his,  or  her  hands,  under  or  by  virtue  of 

*  this  my  Will  and  the  trusts  thereof,  pay  my  just  debts,  funeral  and  testa- 

*  mentary  expenses,  and  legacies.  And  I  declare  that  the  said  trust  funds 
'  or  so  much  thereof  as  shall  remain  after  answering  the  purposes  aforesaid,  and 

*  the  annual  income  thereof,  shall  be  in  trust  for  all  my  children  (but  subject  as 
'  to  my  daughter  Mary  to  the  proviso  hereinbefore  contained),  who  being  a  son 

*  or  sons  shall  have  attained  or  shall  attain  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  and 

*  being  a  daughter  or  daughters  shall  have  attained  or  shall  attain  that  age  or 

*  be  previously  married,  in  equal  shares  if  more  than  one.  Provided 
'  ALWAYS,  that,  as  regards  my  copyrights  and  the  produce  and  profits  thereof, 
'  my  said  daughter  Mary,  notwithstanding  the  pi^oviso  hereinbefore  contained 

*  with  reference  to  her,  shall  share  with  my  other  children  therein  whether  she 
'  be  married  or  not.    And  I  devise  the  estates  vested  in  me  at  my  decease  as 

*  a  trustee  or  mortgagee  unto  the  use  of  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  John 

*  Forster,  their  heirs  and  assigns,  upon  the  trusts  and  subject  to  the  equities 

*  affecting  the  same  respectively.  And  I  appoint  the  said  Georgina 
'  Hogarth  and  John  Forster  executrix  and  executor  of  this  my  Will,  and 
'  Guardians  of  the  persons  of  my  children  during  their  respective  minorities. 
'  And  lastly,  as  I  have  now  set  down  the  form  of  words  which  my  legal  ad- 
'  vLsers  assure  me  are  necessary  to  the  plain  objects  of  this  my  Will,  T  solemnly 

*  enjoin  my  dear  children  always  to  remember  how  much  they  owe  to  the  said 

*  Georgina  Hogarth,  and  never  to  be  wanting  in  a  grateful  and  affectionate 


524 


Appendix. 


'  attachment  to  her,  for  they  know  well  that  she  has  been,  through  all  the 
'  stages  of  their  growth  and  progress,  their  ever  useful  self-denying  and 
'  devoted  friend.    And  I  desire  here  simply  to  record  the  fact  that  my  wife, 

*  since  our  separation  by  consent,  has  been  in  the  receipt  from  me  of  an 

*  annual  income  of  /^6oo,  while  all  the  great  charges  of  a  numerous  and  ex- 

*  pensive  family  have  devolved  wholly  upon  myself.  I  emphatically  direct 
'  that  I  be  buried  in  an  inexpensive,  unostentatious,  and  strictly  private  manner ; 
'  that  no  public  announcement  be  made  of  the  time  or  place  of  my  burial ;  that 

*  at  the  utmost  not  more  than  three  plain  mourning  coaches  be  employed  ;  and 

*  that  those  who  attend  my  funeral  wear  no  scarf,  cloak,  black  bow,  long  hat- 
'  band,  or  other  such  revolting  absurdity.  I  direct  that  my  name  be  in- 
'  scribed  in  plain  English  letters  on  my  tomb,  without  the  addition  of  '*  Mr." 

*  or    Esquire."  I  conjure  my  friends  on  no  account  to  make  me  the  subject  ol 

*  any  monument,  memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever.    I  rest  my  claims  to  the 

*  remembrance  of  my  country  upon  my  published  works,  and  to  the  remem- 

*  brance  of  my  friends  upon  their  experience  of  me  in  addition  thereto.  I 

*  commit  my  soul  to  the  mercy  of  God  through  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus 

*  Christ,  and  I  exhort  my  dear  children  humbly  to  try  to  guide  themselves  by 

*  the  teaching  of  the  New  Testament  in  its  broad  spirit,  and  to  put  no  faith  in 

*  any  man's  narrow  construction  of  its  letter  here  or  there.    In  witness 

*  whereof  I  the  said  Charles  Dickens,  the  testator,  have  to  this  my  last  Will 
'  and  Testament  set  my  hand  this  I2th  day  of  May  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 

*  1869. 

*  Charles  Dickens. 

*  Signed  published  and  declared  by  the  above-named  ^ 
'  Charles  Dickens  the  testator  as  and  for  his  last  Will 

*  and  Testament  in  the  presence  of  us  (present  together 

'  at  the  same  time)  who  in  his  presence  at  his  request  ) 
'  and  in  the  presence  of  each  other  have  hereunto  sub- 

*  scribed  our  names  as  witnesses.  ^ 

'  G.  HOLSWORTH, 

•  26  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

'  Henry  Walker, 

*  26  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

'  I,  Charles  Dickens  of  Gadshill  Place  near  Rochester  in  the  county  of 

*  Kent  Esquire  declare  this  to  be  a  Codicil  to  my  last  Will  and  Testament 

*  which  Will  bears  date  the  12th  day  of  May  1869.  I  give  to  my  son  Charles 
'  Dickens  the  younger  all  my  share  and  interest  in  the  weekly  journal  called 

*  *'  All  the  Year  Round,"  which  is  now  conducted  under  Articles  of  Partner- 

*  ship  made  between  me  and  William  Henry  Wills  and  the  said  Charles 
'  Dickens  the  younger,  and  all  my  share  and  interest  in  the  stereotypes  stock 

*  and  other  effects  belonging  to  the  said  partnership,  he  defraying  my  share  of 

*  all  debts  and  liabilities  of  the  said  partnership  which  may  be  outstanding  at 

*  the  time  of  my  decease,  and  in  all  other  respects  I  confirm  my  said  WilL  In 


The  Will  of  Charles  Dickens.  525 


'  WITNESS  whereof  I  have  hereunto  set  my  hand  the  2nd  day  of  June  in  the 
*  year  of  our  Lord  1870. 

'  Charles  Dickens. 


'  Signed  and  declared  by  the   said  Charles 

*  Dickens,  the  testator  as  and  for  a  Codicil  to  his 

*  Will  in  the  presence  of  us  present  at  the  same 

*  time  who  at  his  request  in  his  presence  and  in  the 

*  presence  of  each  other  hereunto  subscribe  our  names 

*  as  witnesses. 

'  G.  HOLSWORTH, 

*  26  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

'  H.  Walker, 

*  26  Wellington  Street,  Strand.' 


The  real  and  personal  estate, — taking  the  property  bequeathed 
by  the  last  codicil  at  a  valuation  of  something  less  than  two  years* 
purchase ;  and  of  course  before  payment  of  the  legacies,  the  (in 
considerable)  debts,  and  the  testamentary  and  other  expenses,— 
amounted,  as  nearly  as  may  be  calculated,  tO;^93,ooo. 


INDEX. 


A'Beckett  (Gilbert),  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  i.  434  ;  death  of,  ii.  193. 

Aberdeen,  reading  at,  ii.  278. 

Absolon  (John),  ii.  87. 

Actors  and  acting,  i.  1 14-15, 173,  293-6, 
350,  372-3,  408 ;  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  i.  433-7  ;  French,  ii.  195- 
206. 

Adams  (John  Quincey),  i.  247. 

Adams  (Mr.),  i.  221. 

Adelphi  theatre,  Carol  dramatized  at 

the,  i.  350. 
Africa,  memorials  of  dead  children  in, 

ii.  383. 
Agassiz  (M.),  ii.  396  note. 
Agreements,  literary,  i.  345,  ii.  282. 
Ainsworth  (Harrison),  i.  75,  93,  119, 

ii.  94  ;  editor  of  Bentleyl's  Miscellany, 

L  107. 

Alamode  beef-house  (Johnson's),  i  27. 
Albany  (U.  S.),  reading  at,  ii.  430  (and 
see  434). 

Albaro,  Villa  Bagnerello  at,  i.  362-80  ; 
the  sirocco,  i.  363  ;  Angus  Fletcher's 
sketch  of  the  villa,  i.  368  ;  English 
servants,  i.  369;  tradespeople,  i.  370; 
dinner  at  French  consul's,  i.  374-6  ; 
reception  at  the  Marquis  di  Negri's, 
i  376-7. 

Albert  (Prince),  i.  227  note  ;  at  Bou- 
logne, ii.  184-5. 

Alexander  (Mr.),  i.  206, 

Alison  (Dr.),  i.  172,  173. 

Alison  (Sheriff),  ii.  19-20. 

All  the  Year  Round,  titles  suggested  for, 
ii.  283-4  ;  first  number,  ii.  285  (see 


518);  success  of,  ii.  285;  distinction 
between  Household  Words  and,  ii. 
286 ;  tales  by  eminent  writers,  ib.  296  ; 
sale  of  Christmas  numbers,  ii.  287; 
Dickens's  detached  papers,  ii.  287- 
91  ;  Bulwer  Lytton's  Strange  Story 
written  for,  ii.  296  ;  Charies  Collins's 
papers,  ii  293  ;  projected  story  for, 
ii.  315 ;  new  series,  ii.  452  note  ; 
long  serial  stories  accepted,  ii.  475  j 
Dickens's  last  paper  in,  ii.  502 ; 
Christmas  numbers,  ii.  519-21.  See 
codicil  to  will,  ii.  524. 
Allan  (Sir  William),  i.  168,  170,  173-4; 
iL  103. 

Allonby  (Cumberland),  ii.  235  ;  land- 
lady of  inn,  ii.  236. 

Allston  (Washington),  i.  234. 

Amateur  theatricals,  i.  293-4,  ii.  109, 
156-9. 

Arabigu  (Paris),  Paradise  Lost  at  the, 
ii,  200-1. 

America,  visit  to,  contemplated  by 
Dickens,  i.  129 ;  wide-spread  know- 
ledge of  Dickens's  writings  in,  i.  143- 
4,  ii.  390 ;  eve  of  visit,  i.  195-200  ; 
visit  decided,  i.  196  ;  proposed  book 
about,  ib.  ;  arrangements  for  journey, 
i.  197  ;  rough  passage,  L  200-205  J 
first  impressions,  i.  205-218  ;  hotels, 
209,  244,  ii.  395,  397,  400,  408; 
inns,  i.  243,  258  note,  278,  283-5  > 
Dickens's  popularity  in,  i.  211,  ii. 
398  ;  second  impressions,  i.  219-36  ; 
levees,  i.  221,  245,  258,  264,  273, 
282  ;  outcry  against  Dickens,  i.  225  ; 


5^8 


Index. 


slavery,  i,  231,  250,  274-6,  356  ; 
international  copyright  agitation,  i. 
219,  225,  228,  234-6,  254,  289-90; 
railway  travelling,  i.  237-8,  260, 
iL  402-3,  412,  429  ;  trying  climate, 
i.  246  (see  ii.  408)  ;  *  located '  Eng- 
lishmen, i.  248  ;  Dickens's  dislike  of, 
lb.  ;  canal-boat  journeys,  i.  253- 
69 ;  Dickens's  real  compliment  to, 
i.  255  ;  deference  paid  to  ladies  in, 

i.  1231;  duelling,  i  280;  Dickens's 
opinion  of  country  and  people  in 
1842,  i.  248,  284,  306  :  in  1868,  i. 
308,  ii.  413-14 ;  effect  of  Martin 
Chuzzlewity  in,  i.  336-7 ;  desire  to 
hear  Dickens  read,  i.  321 ;  Mr.  Dolby 
sent  to,  ii.  322;  result  of  Dolby's 
visit,  ii.  324-5  note ;  revisited  by 
Dickens,  ii.  393-435  J  old  and  new 
friends,  ii.  396  ;  profits  of  readings, 

ii.  398 ;  Fenianism  in,  ii.  402 ;  news- 
papers, ii.  404  ;  planning  the  read- 
ings, ii.  405-6  ;  nothing  lasts  long  in, 
ii.  405,  425  ;  work  of  Dickens's  staff 
in,  ii.  409  ;  the  result  of  34  readings, 
ii.  415  ;  Dickens's  way  of  life,  ii.  415, 
429,  43 1  note ;  value  of  a  vote,  ii .  4 1 8 ; 
objection  to  coloured  people,  ib.  ; 
female  beauty,  ii.  427 ;  total  expenses 
of  reading  tour,  and  profits  from  read- 
ings, ii.  434 ;  Dickens's  departure 
from,  ii.  435  ;  effect  of  Dickens's 
death,  ii.  390. 

Americanisms,  i.  231,  262,  274,  290, 

ii.  410,  427. 
American  Notes,  choicest  passages  of, 

i.  256 ;  less  satisfactory  than  Dickens's 

letters,  i.  253-4 ;  in  preparation,  i. 

298  (see  527) ;  proposed  dedication, 

i.  301  ;  rejected  motto  for,  i,  303  j 

suppressed  introductory  chapter,  i. 

304-7  ;  Jeffrey's  opinion  of,  i.  307-8  ; 

large  sale,  i.  307. 
Americans,  friendly,  i.  409  ;  deaths  of 

famous,  since  1842,  ii.   396  note; 

homage  to  Dickens  by,  ii.  453  note ; 

French  contrasted  with,  ii.  231,  283. 
Andersen  (Hans),  ii.  231,  283. 


Animals  in  Italy,  cruel  treatment  of, 

i.  415  note. 

Anniversary,  a  birthday,  i.  70,  99,  264, 

ii.  313  ;  a  fatal,  ii.  311,  366-7. 
Archdale  (Mr.  and  Mrs.),  ii.  102. 
Arnold  (Dr.),  Dickens's  reverence  for, 

i.  389. 

Arras  (France),  a  religious  Richardson's 
show  at,  ii.  305-6. 

Art,  conventionalities  of,  i.  403  ;  limi- 
tations of,  in  England,  ii.  334  ;  in- 
feriority of  English  to  French,  ii. 
212-3. 

Artists'  Benevolent  Fund  dinner,  appeal 

by  Dickens  at,  ii.  279. 
Ashburton  (Lord),  i.  232,  274. 
Ashley  (Lord)  and  ragged  schools,  i. 

192,  ii.  1 16-17.  See  Shaftesbury, 

Lord. 

Astley's,  a  visit  from,  ii.  229-30. 

As  you  Like  It^  a  French  version  of, 

ii.  201. 

Auber  and  Queen  Victoria,  ii.  203-4. 

Austin  (Henry),  i.  119,  ii.  285;  secre- 
tary to  the  Sanitary  Commission, 
ii.  15  ;  death  of,  ii.  297. 

Australia,  idea  of  settling  in,  entertained 
by  Dickens,  ii.  243 ;  scheme  for  read- 
ings in,  ii.  303  note  (idea  abandoned, 

ii-  305)- 
Austrian  police,  ii.  1 75-6. 
Authors,  American,  i.  234. 
Authorship,  disquietudes  of,  i.  489. 

Babbage  (Charles),  ii.  99. 
Backwoods  doctor,  ii.  311  note. 
Bagot  (Sir  Charles),  i.  292-4. 
Balloon  Club  at  Twickenham,  i.  120 
note. 

Baltimore  (U.S.),  women  of,  ii.  417; 

readings  at,  ii.  417,  423  (and  see 

434)  ;  white  and  coloured  prisoners 

in  Penitentiary,  ii.  419. 
Bancroft  (George),  i.  209,  ii.  98. 
Banquets,  Emile  de  Girardin's  superb. 

ii.  207-9. 
Bantams,  reduced,  ii.  290. 
Barbox  Brother^,  ii.  369. 


Index. 


529 


Barthelemy  (M.),  leaves  his  card,  i. 
516. 

Barham  (Rev.  Mr.),  i.  407,  u.  104. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  agreement  to  write, 
i.  87  (and  see  97,  105-6,  527)  j 
Dickens  atworkon,i.  122, 155,  160-3; 
agreement  for,  transferred  to  Chap- 
man and  Hall,  i.  149  (see  107)  ;  the 
raven  in,  i.  1 56-8,  166;  constraints 
of  weekly  publication,  i.  162  ;  close 
of,  i.  163  ;  characterised,  i.  163-66  ; 
Lord  Lytton's  opinion  of,  i.  164. 

Barrow,  Elizabeth  (Dickens's  mother), 
i.  3- 

Barrow  (Mary),  i.  11. 
Barrow  (Charles),  i.  ii. 
Barrow  (Thomas),  i.  3  ;  accident  to, 
i.  18. 

Bartlett  (Dr.)  on  slavery  in  America, 
i.  275-6. 

Bartley  (Mr.),  of  Covent-garden,  i.  58 

(see  120). 
Bath,  a  fancy  about,  ii.  444. 
Bathing,  sea,  Dickens's  love  of,  i.  301, 

322,  380. 

Battle  of  Life,  i.  528;  title  suggested  for, 

i.  463  (and  see  494)  ;  contemplated 
abandonment  of,  i.  493  ;  writing  re- 
sumed, i.  493 ;  points  in  the  story,  i. 
494;  Jeffrey's  opinion  of,  i.  500;  sketch 
of,  ib.  ;  Dickens's  own  comments 
on,  i.  502 ;  date  of  the  story,  ib.  ; 
reply  to  criticism,  i.  503 ;  doubts  as 
to  third  part,  i.  504  ;  dedication,  i. 
505  ;  illustrated  by  Stanfield  and 
Leech,  ib.  ;  grave  mistake  made  by 
Leech,  ib.  ;  dramatized,  i.  515. 

Bayham-street,  Camden  town,  Dickens's 
early  life  in,  i.  14-19. 

Beale  (Mr.),  proposal  from,  respecting 
paid  readings,  ii.  252. 

Beard  (Mr.  Carr),  on  Dickens's  lame- 
ness, ii.  445  ;  readings  stopped  by, 

ii.  445,  448  ;  in  constant  attendance 
on  Dickens  at  his  last  readings,  ii, 
447,  504. 

Beard  (Thos.),  i.  55,  62-3,  u8,  120, 
ii.  99,  293. 
VOL.  II. 


Beard  (Frank),  ii,  104. 

Beaucourt  (M.)  described  by  Dickens, 

ii.  179-82;  his  'property,'  ii.  180; 

among  the  Putney  market-gardeners, 

ii.  181  ;  his  goodness,  ii.  1 93-4. 
Bedrooms,  American,  i.  209,221. 
Beecher  (Ward),  ii.  416  ;  readings  in 

his  church  at   Brooklyn,   ii.  411, 

415-6. 

Beer,  a  dog's  fancy  for,  ii,  267  note. 
Beggars,  Italian,  i,  412-13. 
Begging-letter  writers,  i.  152-3,  358  ; 

in  Paris,  i.  517. 
Belfast,  reading  at,  ii.  275. 
Bell  (Robert),  ii,  99, 
Benedict  (Jules),  illness  of,  ii,  97. 
Bentley  (Mr.),  Dickens's  early  relations 

with,  i.  78,  87-8,  92,  96,  106-7, 

ii.  282-3  ;  friendly  feeling  of  Dickens 

in  after  life,  ii.  108,  282-3. 
Bentley' s  Miscellany,  Dickens  editor  of, 

i.  78 ;  proposal  to  write  Barnaby 
Rudge  \n,  i.  97;  editorship  transferred 
to  Mr.  Ainsworth,  i.  107-8 ;  short 
pieces  by  Dickens  in,  i.  526. 

Berwick,  Mary  (Adelaide  Procter),  ii. 
475-6. 

Berwick-on-Tweed,  readings  at,  ii.  295 
299,  300. 

Bethnal  Green  fowls,  ii.  290. 

Betting-men  at  Doncaster,  ii,  236-7. 

Beverley  (William)  at  Wellington-house 
academy,  i.  48-9. 

Birmingham,  Dickens's  promise  to  read 
at,  ii.  152 ;  promise  fulfilled  (first 
public  readings),  ii.  154;  other  read- 
ings, ii.  295,  316;  silver  salver  pre- 
sented to  Dickens,  ii.  152  (see  522) ; 
Dickens's  speeches  at  Institute,  i.  349, 

ii.  480  (see  493,  501). 

Birthday  associations,  i.  70,  99,  264, 

ii-  313- 

Black  (Adam),  i.  172. 

Black  (Charles),  ii.  104. 

Black  (John),  i.  61,  356  ;  his  early  ap- 
preciation of  Dickens,  i.  65  (see  319) ; 
dinner  to,  i,  320. 

Blacking-warehouse  (at  Hungerford 
M  M 


530 


Index. 


Stairs),  Dickens  employed  at,  i.  25  ; 

described,  ib.  (and  see  ii.  488  note)  ; 

associates  of  Dickens,  i.  26  ;  removed 

to  Chandos-street,  Covent-garden,  i. 

37 ;  Dickens  leaves,  L  38  ;  what  be- 
came of  the  business,  1.  39. 
Blackmore  (Edward),  employs  Dickens 

as  clerk,  i.  41  ;  his  recollections  of 

Dickens,  ib. 
Blackpool,  Dickens  at,  ii.  446. 
Blackwood's  Magazine  and  Little  Dorritt 

ii.  228. 
Blair  (General),  ii.  421. 
Blanchard   (Laman),  i.  398,  407 ;  a 

Literary  Fund  dinner  described  by,  i. 

227  note. 

Bleak  House  begun,  ii.  118  (see  516); 
originals  of  Boythorn  and  Skimpole, 
ii.  123-4 ;  inferior  to  Copperjieldy  ii. 
128;  handling  of  character  in,  ii.  137- 
144;  defects  of,  ii.  139-40;  Dean 
Ramsay  on,  ii.  142 ;  originais  of 
Chancery  abuses,  ii.  143  ;  proposed 
titles  for,  ii.  148  note  ;  completion, 
iu  137  ;  sale  of,  ii.  153. 

Blessington  (Lady),  lines  written  for, 

i.  320  note  (and  see  348). 

Blind  Institution  at  Lausanne,  inmates 

of,  i.  452-6,  ii.  163. 
Boat-race    (International),  Dickens's 

speech  at  dinner,  ii.  501. 
Bonchurch,  Dickens  at,  iL  62-70  j  effect 

of  climate,  ii.  66-8  ;  conjuring  at, 

ii.  187-8  note. 
Book  friends,  ii.  19. 

Books,  written  and  unwritten,  hints  for, 
a.  370-86 ;  suggested  titles  in  Memo- 
randa for  new,  ii.  384. 

Bookseller  in  distress,  i.  228. 

Booksellers,  invitation  to,  i.  353  note. 

Boots,  absurdity  of,  i.  222. 

Boots,  a  gentlemanly,  at  Calais,  i.  88  ; 
a  patriotic  Irish,  ii.  273. 

Boots  at  the  Holly -tree  Inn,  ii.  221  ; 
success  of  reading  at  Boston  (U.S.), 
ii.  410. 

Bores,  American,  i.  266,  271-2. 
Boston  (U.S.),  first  visit  to,  i.  205-12  : 


enthusiastic  reception,  i.  206  ;  dinner 
at,  i.  220 ;  changes  since  1 842,  ii. 
397  ;  first  reading,  ii.  425  ;  a  remem- 
brance of  Christmas,  ii.  403 ;  walking- 
match,  ii.  423  ;  audiences,  ii.  425 ; 
last  readings,  ii.  433. 

Bottle  (Cruikshank's),  Dickens's  opinion 
of,  ii.  14-15. 

Boulogne,  an  imaginary  dialogue  at, 
i  518-19 ;  Dickens  at,  ii.  151-4, 
176-94;  the  pier,  ii.  190;  Dickens's 
liking  for,  ii.  1 5 1-2  ;  M.  Beaucourt's 
*  Property,' ii.  177-82,  190-2;  sketch 
of  M.  Beaucourt,  ii.  179-82;  prices 
of  provisions,  ii.  180  note  ;  Shake- 
spearian performance,  ii.  182  ;  pig- 
market,  ib. ;  Thackeray  at,  ii.  183 
note;  camp,  ii.  183-4,  191  ;  Wilkie 
Collins  and  Jerrold  at,  ii.  190;  Prince 
Albert  at,  ii.  184-5  J  illuminations, 
ii.  186  ;  epidemic,  ii  193. 

Boulogne  Jest  Book,  ii.  158  note. 

Bouquets,  serviceable,  ii.  206. 

Bourse,  victims  of  the,  ii.  209. 

Boxall  (William),  ii.  104,  109,  198,  213 
note. 

Boaxing-match,  a,  i.  445. 
Boyle  (Mary),  ii.  293. 
Boys,  list  of  Christian  names  of,  ii. 
.384-5. 

Boz,  origin  of  the  word,  L  64 ;  fac- 
simile of  autograph  signature,  L  185. 
Bradbury  &  Evans  (Messrs.),  i.  138, 

330,  357,  418,  463,  489,  ii-  76,  99 ; 
proposal  to,  i-  329 ;  a  suggestion  by, 
i.  332 ;  Dickens's  agreements  with, 
i.  345  (and  see  489),  iL  152. 

Bradford,  reading  at,  ii.  155  note. 

Brainwork,  effect  of,  L  332. 

Bray  (Richard),  i.  43,  48. 

Brighton,  Dickens's  first  visit  to,  i.  90  ; 
other  visits,  ii.  59-60,  153  ;  theatre, 
i.  90  ;  readings  at,  ii.  295,  298. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor  (Scott's),  com- 
position of  the,  ii.  339-40- 

Bridgeman  (Laura),i.  210  note  (see  453). 

Brinton  (Dr.),  consulted  by  Dickens, 
u.  312. 


hidex. 


531 


British    Museum  reading  room,  fre- 
quented by  Dickens,  i.  53. 
Broadstairs,  Dickens  at,  i.  88-9,  135, 
149,  186-98,  298-304,  322,  437  note; 
ii.   8-19,   47-61,   70-72,  117-8; 
Nickleby  completed  at,  i.  138  ;  house 
occupied  by  Dickens,  i.  136  ;  writing 
American  Notesy  i.  298;  pony-chaise 
accident,  ii.  57. 
Brobity's  (Mr.)  snuff-box,  il  386. 
Brooke  (Rajah),  contemplated  memorial 

to,  iL  469-70. 
Brooklyn  (New  York),  scene  at,  ii.  41 1- 
12  ;  readings  in  Mr.  Ward  Beecher's 
chapel,  ii.  418, 
Brougham  (Lord),  in  Paris,  i.  510  ;  the 

*  Punch  people '  and,  ii.  99. 
Bro\vne  (H.  K.),  1.  I2i,  130,  ii.  100; 
chosen  to  illustrate  Pickwick,  i.  71  ; 
accompanies  Dickens  and  his  wife  to 
Flanders,  i.  88 ;  in  Yorkshire  with 
Dickens,  i.  112;  failure  of,   in  a 
Dombey  illustration,  ii.  37  (but  see 
32) ;  sketch  for  Micawber,  ii.  69  ;  his 
sketch  of  Skimpole,  ii.  149. 
Browning  (R.  B. ),  Dickens's  opinion  of 
his  Blot  on  the  ^Scutcheon,  i.  315  ; 
verse  written  for  Maclise's  Serenade, 
i.  365  note. 
Bruce  (V.-C.  Knight),  i.  351. 
Brunei  (Isambard),  ii.  99. 
Buckingham  Palace,    Dickens  at,  ii. 
484-5- 

Buffalo  (U.S.),  reading  at,  ii.  426. 
Buller  (Charles),  i.  320. 
Bumpus  (Mr,),  correction  by,  ii.  484 
note. 

Burdett  (Sir  Francis),  advocacy  of  the 

poor,  i.  167. 
Burnett  (Mr.),  i.  119,  512. 
Bums  festival.  Prof.  Wilson's  speech  at 

the,  i.  379. 
Bury,  reading  at,  ii.  279  note. 
Bury  St.  Edmunds,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 
Buss  (Mr.),  Pickwick  illustrations  by, 

i.  71. 

Byron's  (Lord)  Ada,  ii.  99. 


IRA,  the  revolutionary  tune,  ii.  199. 

Cambridge,  reading  at,  ii.  320. 

Cambridge  (U.S.)  and  Boston  con- 
trasted, ii.  397  ;  the  Webster  murder, 
ii.  406-7. 

Camden-town,  Dickens  with  Mrs.  Roy- 
lance  at,  i.  28,  36. 

Campbell  (Lord),  i.  227  note ;  on  the 
writings  of  Dickens,  ii.  159  and  note; 
death  of,  ii.  286  note. 

Canada,  emigrants  in,  i.  301-2. 

Canaletti,  truthfulness  of,  i.  400. 

Canal-boat  journeys  in  America,  i.  253- 
269 ;  a  day's  routine,  i.  259 ;  dis- 
agreeables of,  i.  260 ;  a  pretty  scene 
on  board,  i.  276-8. 

Cannibalism,  an  approach  to,  i.  516. 

Cannon-row,  Westminster,  incident  at 
public-house,  i.  34. 

Canterbury,  readings  at,  ii.  295,  299. 

Car-driver,  an  Irish,  ii.  272. 

Card-playing  on  the  Atlantic,  i.  202-3. 

Cary,  the  American  bookseller,  i.  245. 

Carlisle  (Lord),  ii.  88,  99,  116. 

Carlisle  (Bishop  of)  and  Colenso,  ii.  288 
note. 

Carlisle,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 

Carlyle  (Thomas),  i.  378,  407,  ii.  100, 

105  ;  a  strange  profane  story,  i.  84; 

on  international  copyright,  i.  235-6 ; 

Dickens's  admiration  of,  i.  236,  396 

(and  see  ii.  494) ;  regard  for  Dickens, 

i.  360  ;  letter  on  Mazzini,  i.  378;  a 
correction  for,  ii.  72  ;  on  Dickens's 
acting,  ii.  159;  grand  teaching  of, 

ii.  256 ;  inaugural  address  of,  at 
Edinburgh  University,  ii.  314;  hint 
to  common  men,  ii.  329  ;  on  humour, 

•  ii.  341  ;  a  hero  to  Dickens,  ii.  494 ; 
on  Dickens's  death,  ii.  490. 

Carlyle  (Mrs.),  i.  398,  ii.  100 ;  on  the 
expression  in  Dickens's  face,  i.  76 ; 
death  of,  ii.  313;  Dickens's  last  meet- 
ing, ii.  314. 

Carrara,  ovation  at,  i.  411-12. 

Carriage,  an  unaccommodating,  i.  450-1 ; 
a  wonderful,  i.  477. 


M  M  2 


532 


Index. 


Carrick  Fell  (Cumberland),  ascent  of, 
ii.  233-4  ;  accident  to  Wilkie  Collins, 
ii.  234. 

Castellan  (Marquis),  i.  511. 
Castle  Spectre^  a  judicious  *  tag '  to  the, 
ii.  loo-i, 

Catholicism,  Roman,  the  true  objection 
to,  i.  497. 

Cattermole  (George),  i.  119,  130  (see 
362  note) ;  imitation  of  cabstand  water- 
man, ii.  61  note. 
Caudle  Lectures,  a  suggestion  for  the, 
i.  379  note. 

Cerjat  (Mr.),  i.  450-1,  464,  475. 

Chalk  (Kent),  Dickens's  honeymoon 
spent  at,  i.  67  ;  revisited,  i.  76. 

Challinor  (W.),  tract  by  on  Chancery 
abuses,  ii.  144. 

Chambers,  contemplated  chapters  on, 
i.  128. 

Chambers  (Miss),  ii.  293. 

Chamounix,  Dickens's  trip  to,  i.  465-8 ; 

revisited,  ii.  162  ;  narrow  escape  of 

Egg,  ib. 

Chancery,  Dickens's  experience  of  a  suit 
in,  i.  351-2;  originals  of  the  abuses 
exposed  in  Bleak  House,  ii.  143-4. 

Channing  (Dr.),  i.  209,  234 ;  on  Dickens, 
i.  207,  212. 

Chapman  and  Hall,  i.  196,  330,  333  ; 
overtures  to  Dickens  by,  i.  67  ;  ad- 
vise purchase  of  the  Sketches  copyright 
from  Mr.  Macrone,  i.  80  ;  early  re- 
lations of  Dickens  with,  i.  94-5  ; 
concede  share  of  copyright  in  Pick- 
wick, ib.  ;  payments  by,  for  Pickwick 
and  Nicholas  Nickleby,  i.  94  ;  outline 
of  Master  Humphrey' s  Clock  sub- 
mitted to,  i.  127-131  ;  purchase 
Barnaby  Rudge,  i.  149  ;  rupture  with, 
i.  345  ;  Dickens's  earliest  and  latest 
publishers,  ii.  282. 

Chapman  (Edward),  i.  118. 

Chapman  (Mr.  Thomas),  not  the  original 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  i.  358  (and  see  ii. 
46). 

Chapman  (Mr.),  of  the  City-theatre,  i. 


Chappell  (Messrs.),  agreements  with,  ii. 
312-315  ;  arrangement  with,  for  course 
of  final  readings,  ii.  430  note  (and 
see  439-40)  J  amount  received  from, 
on  account  of  readings,  ii.  440 ; 
Dickens's  tribute  to,  ii.  503  note. 

Charles  Dickens  as  a  Reader  (Charles 
Kent's),  ii.  279  note. 

Chateaubriand  (M.),  i.  520,  521  note. 

Chatham,  Dickens's  early  impressions 
of,  i.  5,  13 ;  day-school  in  Rome- 
lane,  i.  8  note ;  Mr.  Giles's  school, 

1.  12-13. 

Cheeryble  (Brothers)  in  Nickleby,  ori- 
ginals of,  i.  119. 

Cheese  (Mr.),  ii.  496. 

Cheltenham,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 

Chester,  readings  at,  ii.  295,  317. 

Chesterton  (Mr.),  i.  189,  297. 

Ch  icago  (U.S.),  monomania  respecting, 
ii.  416. 

Chigwell,  inn  at,  i,  158. 

Children,  powers  of  observation  in,  i. 

2,  7  ;  mortality  of  young,  in  London, 
ii.  248  note  ;  old,  ii.  382. 

Children-farming,  Dickens  on,  ii.  379 
note. 

Child'' s  History  finished,  ii.  154  (see  ii. 
517). 

Child's  Hospital  reading,  ii.  254. 

Child's  night-lights,  wonders  of,  ii.  235. 

Chillon,  Castle  of,  i.  468. 

Chimes,  a  title  found  for  the,  i.  384  (see 
528)  ;  design  for,  i.  385  ;  Dickens 
hard  at  work  on,  i.  389  ;  first  outline, 
i-  390-3  ;  effect  on  Dickens's  health, 
i'  393"4  J  objections  to,  i.  396 ; 
finished,  i.  397  ;  private  readings  at 
Lincoln's-inn-fields,  i.  39S,  407-8 ; 
Jeffrey's  opinion  of  the  tale,  L  397, 
410. 

Chimneys,  smoky,  i.  147. 
Chinese  Junk,  ii.  47-50. 
Chorley  (Henry),  ii.  293. 
Christmas,  Dickens's  identity  with,  i. 
346. 

Christmas-eve  and  day,  Dickens's  accus- 
tomed walk  on,  ii.  492. 


Index. 


533 


Christmas  Carol,  origin  of,  i  325  (see 
528) ;  in  preparation,  i.  333  ;  sale 
and  accounts  of,  i.  343-4  ;  Jeffrey 
and  Thackeray  on,  i.  345  ;  message 
of  the,  i.  346 ;  the  story  characterized, 
i.  345-8  ;  dramatized  at  the  Adelphi, 

i.  350;  first  public  reading  at  Bir- 
mingham, ii.  154  J  reading  of,  for  the 
Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  ii.  254  ; 
reading  in  Boston  (U.S.),  ii.  425-6; 
Thackeray's  copy,  ii.  484  note. 

Christmas  Memorial  of  Charles  Dickens y 

ii.  469  note. 

Christmas  Sketches,  Dickens's,  iL  362. 
Christmas  sports,  i.  316  note. 
Cicala,  the,  i.  366. 

Cincinnati  (U.  S.),  i.  268  ;  described, 

i.  269  ;  a  temperance  festival,  i.  271  ; 
bores  at,  i.  272. 

Circumlocution  Ofi&ce,  ii.  481. 

Clarke  (Mrs.  Cowden),  ii.  22. 

Clare  (poet),  ii.  471. 

Clay  (Henry),  i.  247,  248  ;  on  inter- 
national copyright,  i.  228. 

Clennam  (Mrs.)  in  Little  Dorrit,  first 
sketch  of,  ii.  371. 

Cleveland  (U.S.),  rude  reception  of 
mayor  of,  i.  286. 

Clifton,  reading  at,  ii.  444. 

Coachman,  a  Paris,  i.  521  note. 

Cobden  (Mr.),  at  the  Manchester 
Athenaeum,  i.  323. 

Cobham-park,  i.  150,  198  ;  Dickens's 
last  walk,  ii.  269,  510. 

Cockburn  (Sir  Alexander),  ii.  198. 

Coffee-shops  frequented  by  Dickens,  i. 
29. 

Coggleswell  (Mr. ),  i.  249. 

Cogswell  (Mr.),  ii.  105. 

Coincidence,  marvels  of,  ii.  237,  497. 

Colchester,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 

Col  de  Balme  pass,  i.  465. 

Colden  (David),  i.  222,  252,  419  note  ; 

ii.  104. 

Colenso  (Bishop) and  the  Bishop  of  Car- 
lisle, ii.  288  note. 

Coleridge  (Sara)  on  Little  Nell,  ii,  343 
note ;  on  Chuzzlewit^  ii.  344  note. 


Collier  (Payne)  and  Dickens  in  Hunger- 
ford  Market,  ii.  488  note. 

Collins  (Charles  Allston),  marriage  of, 
to  Kate  Dickens,  ii.  292  ;  books  by, 
ii.  293-4;  on  Dickens's  accompani- 
ments of  work,  ii.  262  note  ;  cover 
designed  by,  for  Edwin  Drood,  ii. 
455  ;  death  of,  ii.  294. 

Collins  (Wilkie),  Dickens's  great  re- 
gard for,  ii.  91  ;  holiday  trip  with 
Dickens  and  Egg,  ii.  161-76 ;  at 
Boulogne,  ii.  183  ;  in  Paris,  ii.  158  ; 
his  Lighthouse  produced  at  Tavistock 
House,  iL  159  ;  in  Cumberland,  ii. 
233-6 ;  accident  to,  on  Carrick  Fell, 
ii.  234  ;  tales  by,  in  All  the  Year 
Round,  ii.  286 ;  at  his  brother's  wed- 
ding, ii.  293. 

Colquhoun  (Mr.),  i.  172. 

Columbus  (U.S.),  levee  at,  i.  282. 

Commercial  Travellers'  schools,  ad- 
mired by  Dickens,  ii.  287. 

Commons,  House  of,  Dickens's  opinion 
of,  i.  63  ;  ii.  478. 

Conjuror,  a  French,  ii.  187-90. 

Consumption,  hops  a  supposed  cure  for, 
ii.  260. 

Conversion,  a  wonderful,  i.  410  note. 
Cooke,  Mr.  (of  Astley's),  ii.  229. 
Cooling  Castle,  ruins  of,  ii.  259,  269, 
357. 

Cooling  churchyard,  Dickens's  partiality 

for,  ii.  269. 
Copyright,     international,  Dickens's 

views  on,  i.  219,  225,  228,  234-6, 

254,  318  ;  Henry  Clay  on,  i.  228 ; 

petition  to  American   Congress,  i. 

232,  248  ;  Carlyle  on,  i.  235-6  ;  two 

obstacles  to,  i.  289-90  (and  see  300) ; 

result  of  agitation,  i.  227-8. 
Corduroy- road,  a,  i.  282-3. 
Cornelius  (Anne),  ii.  522. 
Cornwall  (Barry),  i.  121  note,  416  ;  ii. 

124,  503- 

Cornwall,  Dickens's  trip  to,  i.  311-13. 
Costello  (Dudley),  i.  434  note ;  fancy 
sketch  of,  ii.  14. 
1  Coutts,  Miss  (Baroness  Burdett-Coutts), 


534 


Index, 


i.  153,  167,  296,  410  ;  great  regard 
for,  i.  324 ;  true  friendship  of,  i. 
514-15  ;  generosity  of,  i.  360  note, 
457,  ii.  113,  153,  308  (and  seei. 
410). 

Covent-garden  theatre,  Macready  at,  i. 
91,  122  ;  farce  written  by  Dickens 
for,  i.  120  ;  dinner  at  the  close  of 
Mr.  Macready's  management,  i.  122; 
the  editor  of  the  Satirist  hissed  from 
stage,  i.  318  ;  Dickens  applies  for  an 
engaf^ement,  i.  58  (see  120,  433). 

Coventry,  gold  repeater  presented  to 
Dickens  by  watchmakers  of,  ii.  280 
(and  see  522) ;  reading  at,  ii.  156 
note. 

Crawford  (Sir  George),  i.  405. 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  i.  528  ;  origin  of 
the,  i.  429-30;  Dickens  busy  on, 

i.  438 ;  first  public  reading  at  Bir- 
mingham, ii.  154 ;  a  reading  in  Ary 
Scheffer's  studio,  ii.  214. 

Crimean  war  unpopular  in  France,  ii. 
186,  198. 

Cruikshank  (George),  i.  121,  304 ;  his 
illustrations  to  Sketches,  i.  70 ;  claim 
to  the  origination  of  Oliver  Twist,  i. 
100-2,  ii.  31-34  (and  see  autograph 
letter  of  Dickens,  ii.  33-4)  ;  fancy 
sketch  of,  ii.  ii,  12-13;  Dickens's 
opinion  of  his  Bottle  and  Drunkard'' s 
Children,  ii.  14-15,  51-2  (and  see  ii. 
56). 

Cruize  on  Wheels  (Charles  Collins's),  ii. 
294. 

Cumberland,  Dickens's  trip  in,  ii. 
^  233-6. 

Cunningham,  Peter,  character  and  life, 

ii.  160-1. 

Curry  (Mr.),  i.  371,  395,  405. 
Curtis  (George),  ii.  104. 
Custom-house-officers  (continental),  i. 
405-6,  509. 

Daily  News  projected,  i.  430 ;  mis- 
giving as  to,  i.  438-40 ;  first  number 
of,  i.  441  ;  Pictures  from  Italy  begun 
in,  i.  441 ;  Dickens's  short  editor- 


ship, i.  440-2  ;  succeeded  by  autho 

of  this  book,  i.  442,  499-500. 
Dana  (R.  H.),  i.  209. 
Danby  (Mr. ),  ii.  65. 
Danson  (Dr.  Henry),  recollections  by, 

of  Dickens  at  school,  i.  47-50  ;  letter 

from  Dickens  to,  i.  50  note. 
Dansons  (the)  at  work,  ii.  230. 
David  Copperfield,  ii.  516;  identity  of 

Dickens  with  hero  of,  i.  24-39,  ii. 

128-30;  characters  and  incidents  in, 

ii.  120-134  ;  the  original  of  Dora,  i. 

55-6  (see  ii.  112)  ;  name  found  for, 

ii.  96  ;  dinners  in  celebration  of,  ii. 

117;  sale  of,  ii.  76;  titles  proposed 

for,  ii.  95-7  ;  progress  of,  ii.  1 10-12  ; 

Lord  Lytton  on,  ii.  120  ;  popularity 

of,  ib.  ;  original  of  Miss  Moucher,  ii. 

121  ;  original  of  Mr.  Micawber,  ii. 

126-7  ;  Bleak  House  inferior  to,  ii. 

128;  a  proposed  opening,  ii.  222; 

fac-simile  of  plan  prepared  for  first 

number,  ii.  223. 
David  d' Angers,  the  sculptor,  i.  520. 
Davies  (Rev.  R.  H.),  Dickens's  letter 

to,  il  468-9. 
Davison  (Henry),  i.  122. 
Dean-street  theatre  (Soho),  i.  433-7, 

486. 

De  Foe  (Daniel),  Dickens's  opinion  of, 
ii.  204  note  ;  his  History  of  the  Devil y 
i.  91. 

Delane  (John),  ii.  99,  231. 

Denman  (Lord),  i,  359. 

Devonshire  (Duke  of),  generosity  of,  i. 
472;  help  rendered  to  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art,  ii.  84-5  ;  cha- 
racter, 85. 

Devonshire-terrace,  Dickens  removes 
from  Doughty-street  into,  i.  122  ;  let 
to  Sir  J.  Duke,  i.  443 ;  Maclise's 
sketch  of  Dickens's  house,  ii.  119. 

Dick,  a  favourite  canary,  ii.  192. 

Dickens  (John),  family  of,  i.  3  ;  his 
small  but  good  library,  i.  9  ;  money 
embarrassments  of,  i  14,  19  ;  cha- 
racter described  by  his  son,  i.  16  ;  ar- 
rested for  debt,  i.  20 ;  legacy  to,  i.  35  j 


Index. 


535 


leaves  the  Marshalsea,  i.  36 ;  on  the 
education  of  his  son,  i.  53  ;  becomes 
a  reporter,  L  53  (see  57) ;  Devonshire 
home  described,  i.  123-26;  death  of, 
il  113  ;  his  grave  at  Highgate,  ib.  ; 
sayings  of,  ii.  126-7  >  respect  enter- 
tained by  his  son  for,  ii,  127. 
Dickens  (Mrs.  John),  death  of,  iL 
308. 

Dickens  (Fanny),  i.  3,  27,  28,  58,  ii.  83 ; 
elected  a  pupil  to  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Music,  L  16;  obtains  a  prize 
thereat,  i.  36;  illness  of,  i.  512; 
Elliotson's  opinion  of,  t6.  ;  death,  ii. 
93- 

Dickens  (Letitia),  i.  3,  ii.  92 ;  marriage 
of,  ii.  15. 

Dickens  (Frederick),  L  3,  82,  119,  174, 
198  (and  see  ii.  104)  ;  narrow  escape 
from  drowning  in  the  bay  at  Genoa, 
i.  380 ;  death  of,  ii.  443. 

Dickens  (Alfred  Lamert),  i.  3,  149,  ii. 
15  ;  death  of,  ii.  294. 

Dickens,  Augustus  (died  in  America), 
i.  3,  64,  iL  15-16. 

Dickens,  Charles,  birth  of,  at  Port- 
sea,  i.  3. 

sketch  of  his  burthplace,  i.  4  (see  5 
note). 

reminiscences  of  childhood  at  Chat- 
ham, i.  5-14. 

relation  of  David  Copperfield  to,  i.  9, 
24-39,  il  128-30. 

his  wish  that  his  biography  should 
be  written  by  the  author  of  this 
book,  i.  17,  18  note  (see  ii.  38,  91, 

lOI.) 

first  efforts  at  description,  i.  19. 
account  by  himself  of  his  boyhood,  i. 

22-39,  58-9  (and  see  ii.  287,  488). 
school-days  and  start  in  life,  i.  39-57 

(see  ii.  488  note), 
illnesses  of,  L  32,  163,  198  (see  ii. 

318,506,  510),  i.  377,439,507  note, 
315-6,   351,  407,   423,  432, 

506. 

clerk  in  an  attorney's  office,  i.  51. 
hopeless  love  of,  L  55-6. 


Dickens,  Charles. 

newspaper  reporting  and  writing,  i. 

57-65  (and  see  ii.  488  note), 
tries  to  get  upon  the  stage,  i.  58  (see 

120,  432). 
first  book,  and  origin  of  Pickwick, 

i.  66-72. 

marriage,  i.  67  ;  separation  from  his 

wife,  ii.  254. 
writes  for  the  stage,  i.  72  (and  see  91, 

120.) 

first  five  years  of  fame,  i.  73-192. 

predominant  impression  of  his  life,  i. 
76,  94,  198-9,  287,  387-8,  411 
note,  507  note,  ii.  91,  243,  497. 

personal  description  of,  i.  75. 

personal  habits,  i.  85-6,  266,  283, 
457,  515,  ii-  265-9,  489. 

relations  with  his  illustrators,  L 100-2, 

ii.  28-34. 

portraits  of,  i.  48,  117  note,  ii.  281. 
curious  epithets  given  to  his  children, 

i.  120  note,  461  note,  508-9,  ii.  3 
note,  179  (and  see  i.  210,  232,  234, 
252,  296). 

entered  at  the  Middle  Temple,  i.  121 
(see  123). 

adventures  in  the  Highlands,  i.  176- 
185. 

visit  to  the  United  States,  i.  195- 
296  ;  re-visits  America,  ii.  393. 

domestic  griefs,  i.  198. 

an  old  malady,  L  198,  ii.  318,  506, 
510. 

an  admirable  stage  manager,  i.  436,  ii. 

4-5,  21  note,  89. 
his  ravens,  i.  147,  156-8,  438. 
his  dogs,  i.  299  (see  ii.  211  note), 

378  note,  ii.  266-8  (see  493). 
his  birds,  ii.  192-3. 
accompaniments  of  work,  i.  369,  457, 

ii.  262-3  note. 

religious  views  of,  i.  324,  387-9,  ii. 
467-9. 

turning-point  of  his  career,  i.  334. 
writing  in  the  Chronicle^  i.  356. 
Carlyle's  regard  for,  i.  360. 
fancy  sketch  of  his  biographer,  ii.  14. 


536 


Index. 


Dickens,  Charles. 
sea-side  holidays,  ii.  46-72,  176-94. 
Italian  travels,  i.  398-425,  ii.  161- 
76. 

craving  for  crowded  streets,  i.  384, 
482,  484-5,  489,  493. 

political  opinions,  i.  386,  ii.  477-9 
(and  see  501). 

his  long  walks,  i.  395,  507  note,  ii. 
288-9,  491. 

first  desire  to  become  a  public  reader, 
i.  407,  486,  ii.  155. 

edits  the  Daily  News,  i.  440-2. 

home  in  Switzerland,  i.  448-9  ;  re- 
visits the  continent,  ii.  161-76. 

residence  in  Paris,  i.  509-24,  ii.  194- 
218. 

underwriting  numbers,  i.   523  note 

(see  ii.  42),  ii.  367. 
overwriting  numbers,  ii.  26-7,  38. 
home  disappointments,  il  238-255 

(and  see  524). 
purchases  Gadshill-place,  ii.  257. 
first  public  readings,  ii.  154. 
first  paid  Readings,  ii.  270-81. 
second  series  of  Readings,  ii.  292- 

306. 

third  series  of  Readings,  ii.  307- 
325. 

memoranda  for  stories  first  jotted 
down  by,  ii.  240  (and  see  370- 
86). 

favourite  walks,  ii.  259,  269. 

first  attack  of  lameness,  ii.  310-13 
(and  see  ii.  323,  366,  430,  434 
note,  444-7,  492-3,  503,  508 ;  Mr. 
Syme's  opinion,  ii.  445-6. 

general  review  of  his  literary  labours, 

i.  329-391. 

complete  list  of  his  books,  i.  525-8, 

ii.  515-21  ;  French  translation  of 
his  works,  ii.  194,  197,  215  note 
(see  ii.  518). 

effect  in  America  of  his  death,  ii. 
512. 

last  readings  of,  ii.  437-50. 
noticeable  changes  in,  ii.  441,  446-7, 
506. 


Dickens,  Charles. 

comparison  of  early  and  late  MSS., 

ii.  454,  456-7. 
personal  characteristics,  ii.  463-498. 
interview  with  the  Queen,  ii,  484-5. 
strain  and  excitement  at  the  final 

readings  at  St.  James's  Hall,  ii. 

504-5- 

last  days  at  Gadshill,  ii.  501-12. 
his  death,  ii.  511-12  (see  490). 
a  tribute  of  gratitude  to,  for  his  books, 
ii.  509. 

general  mourning  for,  iL  512. 
burial  in  Westminster  Abbey,  ii.  513, 
unbidden    mourners  at  grave,  ii. 
513. 

tablet  in  Rochester  Cathedral,  ii.  221 
note. 

his  Will,  ii.  469  (see  i.  325). 

Dickens  (Mrs.),  i.  67,  99,  174,  183, 
192,  196-7,  202,  206,  209,  222-4, 
230,  237,  243,  245,  263-4,  273,  281, 
286,  293-4,  359,  388,  397,  405,  419 
note,  443,  465,  491,  512  ;  ii.  89,  96, 
112,  116,215,  245;  pony-chaise  ac- 
cident at  Broadstairs,  ii.  57 ;  silver 
flower -basket  presented  to,  at  Bir- 
mingham, ii.  1 54 ;  reluctance  to  leave 
England,  i,  197  ;  her  maid  Anne,  ib.^ 
202,  209,  244,  265,  286,  509;  an 
admirable  traveller,  L  281  ;  Maclise's 
portrait  of,  i.  313  ;  the  separation, 
ii.  254  (and  see  524). 

Dickens  (Charles,  jun.),  i.  410,  ii.  15, 
158,  254,  522,  524;  birth  of,  L  76; 
illness,  i.  523;  education,  i,  514,  ii. 
1 10;  sent  to  Leipzig,  ii.  152;  mai- 
riage,  ii.  298. 

Dickens  (Mary),  birth  of,  L  98  (and  see 
ii.  loi,  268,  277,  522). 

Dickens  (Kate),  ii.  197,  265,  277  ;  birth 
of,  i.  122  (and  see  ii.  loi)  ;  illness 
of,  i.  369  ;  marriage,  ii.  292. 

Dickens  (Walter  Landor),  ii.  15  ; 
christening  of,  i.  199  ;  death  of,  i.  167 
(and  see  ii.  308). 

Dickens  (Francis  Jeffrey),  birth  of,  i« 
326  (see  461  note). 


Index. 


537 


Dickens  (Alfred  Tennyson),  birth  of, 

i.  438  (see  461  note). 

Dickens  (Sydney  Smith  Haldimand), 
birth  of,  ii.  3  ;  Frank  Stone's  sketch 
of,  ii.  3  note  ;  death  of  at  sea,  ib. 
(see  ii.  495)- 

Dickens  (Henry  Fielding),  birth  of,  iL 
94 ;  acting  of,  ii.  156-7  ;  wins  scho- 
larship at  Cambridge,  ii.  502  (and 
see  ii.  522). 

Dickens  (Edward  Bulwer  Lytton),  birth 
of,  ii.  149  ;  goes  to  Australia,  ii.  443 
(see  letter  to,  467,  493). 

Dickens  (Dora  Annie),  birth  of,  ii,  112  ; 
death,  ii.  115  ;  her  grave  at  High- 
gate,  ii.  116,  149. 

Dickens  in  Camp  (Bret  Harte's),  i. 
143-4. 

Dilke  (Charles  Wentworth),  i.  22-3; 
death  of,  ii.  310. 

Dilke  (Sir  Charles),  ii.  71  ;  his  Papers 
of  a  Critic^  ii.  310  note. 

Disraeli  (Mr. ),  ii.  508  ;  at  the  Man- 
chester Athenaeum,  i.  323. 

Doctors,  Dickens's  distrust  of,  ii.  67. 

Doctors'  Commons,  Dickens  reporting 
in,  i.  55  (and  see  i.  432  ;  ii.  134). 

Doctor  Marigold's  Prescriptions^  ii. 
369-70  (see  289,  520)  ;  Dickens's 
faith  in,  as  a  reading,  ii.  313  ;  success 
of  the  reading  at  New  York,  ii.  410. 

Dogs,  Dickens's,  i.  299  (see  301, 
378  note,  ii.  211  note),  ii,  266-8, 
270 ;  effect  of  his  sudden  lameness 
upon,  ii.  493. 

Dolby  (Miss),  ii.  104. 

Dolby,  Mr.  (Dickens's  manager),  ii. 
319  ;  sent  to  America,  ii.  322  ; 
troubles  of,  ii.  409,  412,  418,  424  ; 
the  most  unpopular  man  in  America, 

ii.  404  ;  his  care  and  kindness,  ii. 
423,  434 ;  ludicrous  mistake,  ii.  423 
note ;  commission  received  by,  ii. 
440. 

Dombey  and  Son,  i.  528,  ii.  515 ; 
original  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  in,  i.  28,  36, 
ii.  37 ;  begun  at  Rosemont,  i.  457  ; 
Dickens  at  work  on,  i.  462-3,  474,  1 


482,  484-5,  488-90  ;  general  idea  for, 
i.  462 ;  hints  to  artist,  i.  463 ;  a 
reading  of  first  number,  i.  478,  486 ; 
large  sale,  i,  494  (and  see  ii.  76) ;  a 
number  underwritten,  i.  523  note 
(see  ii.  42);  charwoman's  opinion  of, 

i.  524 ;  snuff -shop  readings  of,  ib.  ; 
plan  of,  ii.  24-26 ;  progress  of,  ii. 
26-46 ;  artist- fancies  for  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, ii.  29-30  ;  passage  of  original 
MS.  omitted,  ii.  28  note  ;  a  reading 
of  second  number,  ii.  36  (see  i.  468, 
484) ;  finished,  i.  508  ;  Jeffrey  on,  ii. 
39  and  note,  41-2  note,  44  j  cha- 
racters in,  and  supposed  originals,  iL 
45-6  (and  see  i,  358) ;  profits  of,  ii. 
15;  translated  into  Russian,  ii.  77. 

Doncaster  race-week,  ii.  236-7  ;  a 
'groaning  phantom,'  ii.  237  (see 
497). 

Dora,  a  real,  i.  55  ;  changed  to  Flora 

in  Litt/e  Dorrit,  i.  56, 
Dormitories,  white  and   coloured,  ii. 

419. 

D'Orsay  (Count),  i,  418 ;  letter  con- 
cerning Roche  the  courier,  i.  431 
note;  death  of,  ii.  151. 

Doughty-street,  Dickens  removes  to,  i, 
76;  incident  of,  ii.  291. 

Douro  (Lady),  ii.  100. 

Dover,  Dickens  at,  ii.  151  ;  readings 
at,  ii.  295,  299 ;  storm  at,  ii.  298-9. 

Dowling  (Vincent),  i.  62. 

Dowton  (Mr.),  ii.  17. 

Dramatic  College  (Royal),  Dickens's 
interest  in  the,  ii.  279-80. 

Dream,  a  vision  in  a,  i.  387-9  (and  see 

ii.  496)  ;  President  Lincoln's,  ii. 
419-20. 

Drunkards  Children  (Cruikshank's), 
Dickens's  opinion  of,  ii.  51-2. 

DubUn,  Dickens's  first  impressions  of, 
ii,  272  ;  humorous  colloquies  at 
Morrison's  hotel,  ii.  273-4  \  readings 
in,  iL  272-4,  320. 

Duelling  in  America,  i,  280. 

Duke  (Sir  James),  L  443. 

Dumas'  (Alexandre)  tragedy  of  Kean^ 


538 


Index. 


i.  372-3  (and  see  ii.  473  note) ;  his 
Orestes,  ii.  199 ;  his  Christine,  i. 
408  ;  a  supper  with,  i.  520. 

Dundee,  reading  at,  ii.  278. 

Duplessis  (Marie),  death  of,  i.  522  (see 

ii.  16). 

Dyce  (Alexander),  i.  407,  ii.  102. 

Eden  in  Martin  Chizzlewit,  original  of, 
i.  256,  261  ;  a  worse  swamp  than,  i. 
337. 

Edinburgh,  public  dinner  to  Dickens, 
i.  168-73  ;  presentation  of  freedom, 
i.  171  (and  see  ii.  252)  ;  wassail-bowl 
presented  after  Carol  reading,  ii.  252 
(see  522)  ;  readings  at,  ii.  277,  301, 
443  note ;  the  Scott  monument,  ii.  20. 

Editorial  troubles  and  pleasures,  ii.  474. 

Editors,  American,  incursion  of,  i.  206. 

Education,  two  kinds  of,  i.  53  ;  Dickens's 
speeches  on,  i.  349,  ii.  480  (see  493, 
501). 

Edwin  Drood,  ii.  521  ;  clause  inserted 
in  agreement  for,  ii.  451  note ;  sale 
of,  tb. ;  amount  paid  for,  ib.  ;  first 
fancy  for,  ii.  451  ;  the  story  as 
planned  in  Dickens's  mind,  ii.  452-3  ; 
Longfellow  on,  ii.  453  ;  merits  of,  ii. 
453-4  ;  facsimile  of  portion  of  final 
page,  ii.  455  (and  see  510) ;  an  un- 
published scene  for,  ii.  455-63  ; 
original  of  the  opium  eater  in,  ii. 
501-2  ;  readings  of  numbers,  ii. 
502,  503,  508. 

Egg  (Augustus),  ii.  1 59 ;  fancy  sketch 
of,  ii.  14 ;  holiday  trip  with  Dickens 
and  Wilkie  Collins,  ii.  161-76;  his 
painting  of  Peter  the  Great  first 
seeing  Catherine,  ii.  212 ;  narrow 
escape  at  Chamounix,  ii.  162-3. 

Electric  message,  uses  for,  ii.  375-6. 

Eliot  (George),  Dickens's  opinion  of  her 
first  book,  i.  316. 

Elliotson  (Dr.),  i.  189,360,  495,  507-8. 

Elton  (Mr.),  Dickens's  exertions  for 
family  of,  i.  322. 

El  win  (Rev.  Whitwell),  allusion  to,  ii. 
94- 


Emerson  (Ralph  Waldo),  ii.  105. 
Emigrants  in  Canada,  i.  301-2. 
Emigration  schemes,  Dickens's  belief 

in,  i.  471. 
Emmanuel  (Victor),  in  Paris,  ii.  198. 
Englishmen  abroad,  i.  444,  464,  474-7. 
Engravings,    Dickens    on,   i,  401-2 

note. 

Erie  (Lake),  i.  285. 

Eugenie  (Empress),  ii.  87. 

Evening  Chronicle,  sketches  contributed 

by  Dickens  to,  i.  65. 
Evenings  of  a  Working  Man  (John 

Overs'),  i.  359-60  (see  528). 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  private 

performances  of,    at  Miss  Kelly's 

theatre,  i.  434-6  (see  ii.  21  note)  ; 

Leigh  Hunt's  criticism  of  actors,  ii. 

6  note ;  Lord  Lytton's  prologue,  ib. 

(and  see  ii.  509)  ;  performances  at 

Kneb worth-park,  ii.  83). 
Examiner,  articles  by  Dickens  in  the, 

i.  121.  . 

Executions,   public,    Dickens's  letter 

against,  ii.  107. 
Exeter,  reading  at,  ii.  271. 
Eye-openers,  ii.  410. 

Facsimiles  :  of  letters  written  in  boy- 
hood by  Dickens,  i.  46  ;  of  the  auto- 
graph signature  'Boz,'i.  185  ;  of  New 
York  invitations  to  Dickens,  i. 
213-18  ;  of  letter  to  George  Cruik- 
shank,  ii.  33-4;  of  plans  prepared 
for  first  numbers  of  Copperfield  and 
Little  Dorrit,  ii.  223-4  ;  of  portion 
of  last  page  of  Edwin  Drood,  ii.  456 
(and  see  510)  ;  of  Oliver  Twist,  ii. 
457. 

Fagin  (Bob),  i.  26,  30,  37,  377  ;  ad- 
venture with,  i.  32. 

Fairbaim  (Thomas),  letter  of  Dickens 
to,  on  posthumous  honours,  ii. 
469-70. 

Fatal  Zero  (Percy  Fitzgerald's),  ii.  475. 
Faucit  (Helen),  ii.  104. 
I  Fechter  (Mr.),  chalet  presented  by,  to 


Index. 


539 


Dickens,  ii.  262-4  J  Dickens's  friendly 
relations  with,  ii,  309-10. 
Feline  foes,  ii.  192. 

Felton  (Cornelius  C. ),  i.  209,  222,  226, 
311 ;  letters  to,  i.  316  note,  326,  419 
note,  ii.  153  ;  death  of,  ii.  302  note. 

Fenianism  in  Ireland,  ii.  319-20  note  ; 
in  America,  ii.  402  (and  see  485). 

Fermoy  (Lord),  ii.  496. 

Fetes  at  Lausanne,  i.  460-1,  468-70. 

Fiction,  realities  of,  ii.  344,  357. 

Field  (Kate),  Pen  Photographs  by,  ii. 
279  note. 

Fielding  (Henry),  real  people  in  novels 
of,  ii.  121  ;  episodes  introduced  in  his 
novels,  ii.  226-7  ;  Dr.  Johnson  on, 
345  ;  M.  Taine's  opinion  of,  ib. 

Fields  (James  T.),  on  Dickens's  health 
in  America,  ii.  407-8  ;  at  GadshiU,  ii. 
265,  292,  501. 

Fiesole,  Landor's  villa  at,  i.  417 
note. 

Fildes  (S.  L.),  chosen  to  illustrate 
Edwin  Drood,  ii.  455  ;  sketch  by  of 
the  vacant  chair  at  Gadshill,  ii.  262 
note. 

Finality,  a  type  of,  ii.  49-50. 
Finchley,  cottage  at,  rented  by  Dickens, 
i.  319- 

Fine  Old  English  Gentleman,  a  poli- 
tical squib  by  Dickens,  i.  188-9. 

Fireflies  in  Italy,  i.  422. 

Fires  in  America,  frequency  of,  ii. 
400-1. 

Fitzgerald  (Percy),  ii.  293  ;  dog  given 
by  to  Dickens,  ii.  267  ;  a  contri- 
butor in  All  the  Year  Round,  ii.  475  ; 
personal  liking  of  Dickens  for,  ib. 

*  Fix,'  a  useful  word  in  America,  i.  262. 

Flanders,  Dickens's  trip  to,  i.  88. 

Fletcher  (Angus),  i.  170,  175,  385, 
412  ;  with  Dickens  at  Broadstairs, 
i.  153;  anecdotes  of,  i.  176-7,  180, 
420  (and  see  362,  385,  412)  ; 
his  mother,  i.  420  note  ;  pencil 
sketch  by,  of  the  Villa  Bagnerello  at 
Albaro,  i.  368 ;  death  of,  i.  420 
note. 


Flies,  plague  at  Lausanne,  i.  459  note. 

Fonblanque  (Albany),  i.  70,  320,  407  ; 
wit  of,  i.  407,  ii.  98. 

Footman,  a  meek,  i.  421. 

Ford  (Mr.),  on  the  works  of  Cruik- 
shank,  ii.  56. 

Ford  (Mrs.),  ii.  99. 

Fortescue  (Miss),  acting  of,  i.  350. 

Fortnightly  Review,  Mr.  Lewes's  critical 
essay  in  on  Dickens,  ii.  334-9. 

Fowls,  eccentric,  ii.  289-90. 

Fox  (William  Johnson),  i.  320,  407. 

Fox-under- the- Hill  (Strand),  reminis- 
cence of,  i.  33-4. 

Franklin  (Lady),  ii.  494. 

Fraser  (Peter),  ii.  103. 

Freemasons'  Hall,  farewell  banquet  in 
to  Dickens,  ii.  325. 

Freemasons'  secret,  a,  ii.  72. 

Free-trade  and  Lord  '  Gobden,*  i.  507. 

French  and  Americans  contrasted,  i. 
514. 

French  philosophy,  ii.  58. 

Frescoes,  perishing,  i.  366  ;  at  the  Pa- 
lazzo Peschiere,  i.  381  note,  382  ; 
Maclise's,  for  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, ii.  507  note. 

Friday,  in  connection  with  important 
incidents  in  Dickens's  life,  ii.  258, 
417,  &c. 

Frith  (W.  P.),  picture  by  at  the  Paris 
Art  Exposition,  ii.  212  ;  his  portrait 
of  Dickens,  ii.  281. 

Funeral,  an  English,  in  Italy,  i.  420. 

Furnival's  inn,  room  where  the  first  page 
of  Pickwick  was  written,  ii.  501. 

Gadshill  Place,  a  vision  of  boyhood 
at,  i.  6  (and  see  ii.  256)  ;  the  canary's 
tomb  at,  ii.  192  note;  first  descrip- 
tion of,  ii.  256 ;  sketch  of  porch,  ii. 
257 ;  purchased,  ii.  257  (and  see 
227) ;  antecedents  of,  ii.  259-60 ;  im- 
provements and  additions,  ii.  260-5  J 
sketch  of  Chalet,  ii.  263;  nightingales, 
ii.  264  ;  Dickens's  daily  life  at,  ii. 
265-70;  sketch  of  house  and  con« 


540 


Index. 


servatory,  ii,  266  ;  the  Study,  ii, 

270;  games  for  the  villagers,  ii.  486-7 ; 

Dickens's  last  days  at,  ii.  501-12. 
Gambler's  Life^  Lemaitre's  acting  in 

the,  ii.  195-6  (see  495). 
Gamp  (Mrs.),  original  of,  i.  319;  a 

masterpiece  of  English  humour,  i. 

341  ;  with  the  Strollers,  ii.  7-14. 
Gaskell  (Mrs.),  ii.  81,  100,  149. 
Gasman's  compliment  to  Dickens,  ii. 

300  and  note. 
Gautier  (Theophile),  i.  520. 
Geneva,  Dickens  at,  i.  495  ;  revolution 

at,   i.    495-99 ;    aristocracy  of,  i. 

495-7. 

Genoa  described,  i.  371-4;  theatres, 
i.  372-3  (and  see  ii.  473  note)  ;  reli- 
gious houses,  i.  373  ;  rooms  in  the 
Palazzo  Peschiere  hired  by  Dickens, 

i.  374;  dangers  of  the  bay,  i.  380; 
view  over,  i.  383;  Governor's  levee, 
i-  385  >  English  funeral,  i.  420 ; 
nautical  incident,  i.  421  ;  revisited  by 
Dickens,  ii.  164. 

George  Silverman! s  Explanation,  ii.  370, 
521  (and  see  291  note  and  323). 

Ghost  stories  (Dickens's),  ii.  496-7. 

Gibson  (Milner),  ii.  99  (see  503). 

Gilbert  Massenger  (Holme  Lee's),  re- 
marks on  by  Dickens,  ii.  474-5- 

Giles  (William),  L  5,  205  note  ;  Dick- 
ens at  the  school  kept  by,  i.  12- 
13  ;  presents  snuff-box  to  '  Boz,'  L 
12. 

Gipsy  tramps,  ii.  289. 

Girardin  (Emile  de),  banquets  given  by, 

in  honour  of  Dickens,  ii.  207-9. 
Girls,  American,  i.  271-2  note  ;  Irish, 

ii.  273  ;  list  of  christian  names  of,  ii. 
384-5- 

Gladstone  (Mr.),  and  Dickens,  i.  63, 
ii.  508. 

Glasgow,  proposed  dinner  to  Dickens 
at,  i.  185 ;  readings  at,  ii.  278,  301, 
443  note  ;  Dickens  at  meeting  of 
Athenaeum,  ii.  19. 

Glencoe,  Pass  of,  i.  179,  181  ;  effect  on 
Dickens,  i.  181,  287. 


Goff  (Mr.  and  Mrs.),  i.  450, 
Goldfinch  and  his  friend,  ii.  291. 
Gondoliers  at  Venice,  habits  of,  ii.  172. 
Gordon  (Lord  George),  character  of,  i. 
161. 

Gordon  (Sheriff),  i.  172,  ii.  103. 
Gordon  (Duff),  ii.  104. 
Gore-house,  a  party  at,  i.  522  note. 
Gore  (Mrs.),  ii,  99. 

Gower-street-north,  school  in,  opened 
by  Dickens's  mother,  i.  19  ;  a  dreary 
home,  i.  21  (see  ii.  287) ;  home 
broken  up,  i.  27. 

Graham  (Sir  James),  and  letter-opening, 

i.  359- 

Graham  (Lady),  ii.  98. 

Grant  Qames),  recollections  of  Dickens 

by,  i.  61  (and  see  66). 
Grau  (Mr.),  ii.  321. 

Graves,  town,  ii.  143,  149  note; 
Dickens's  dislike  to  speech-making 
at,  ii.  470. 

Great  Expectations,  ii.  519;  original  o 
Satis-house  in,  ii.  269;  germ  of,  ii. 
355 ;  the  story  characterized,  ii.  356- 
61 ;  close  of,  changed  at  Bulwer  Lyt- 
ton's  suggestion,  ii.  361. 

Great  Malvern,  cold-waterers  at,  ii.  455. 

Greek  war-ship,  a,  ii.  166-7. 

Greeley  (Horace),  ii.  434  and  note ;  on 
the  effect  in  America  of  Dickens's 
death,  ii.  390 ;  on  Dickens's  fame  as 
a  novelist,  ii.  396 ;  a  suggestion  from, 

ii.  416. 

Green  ('  Poll'),  i.  26,  30. 
Gregory  (Mr.),  the  great  chemist,  ii. 
20. 

Grieve  (Thos.),  ii.  87. 

Grey  (Lord),  recollection  of,  i.  473. 

Grimaldi,  Life  of,  edited  by  Dickens, 
i.  92  (see  526) ;  the  editor's  modest 
estimate  of  it,  ib. ;  criticisms  on,  ib. 

Grip,  Dickens's  raven,  i.  147 ;  death  of^ 
L  156-58 ;  apotheosis  by  Maclise, 
i.  159;  a  second  Grip,  i  158  (death 
of,  i.  438). 

Grisi  (Madame),  i.  408, 

Gruneisen  (Mr.),  i.  318  note 


Index. 


54f 


Guild  of  Literature  and  Art,  origin  of, 
ii.  83  ;  princely  help  of  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  ii.  84-5  (and  see  ii.  471) ; 
farce  promised  by  Dickens,  ii.  84 ; 
failure  of  the  scheme,  ii.  87 ;  card 
of  membership  designed  for,  ii.  88. 


Hachette  (MM. ),  agreement  with,  for 

French  translation  of  Dickens's  works, 

ii.  215  note. 
Haghe  (Louis),  ii.  88,  169. 
Haldimand  (Mr.),  i.  452;  his  seat  at 

Lausanne,  i.  450 ;  Hallam's  visit  to, 

i.  463. 

Halevy  (M.),  dinner  to,  ii.  99. 
Halifax,  the  'Britannia'  aground  off, 

i.  204 ;  house  of  assembly  at,  i.  205. 
Hall  (Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C),  ii.  104. 
Hall  (William),  i.  190-1  ;  at  Furnival's 

inn,  i.  68;  premature  fears  of,  i.  328; 
funeral  of,  ii.  3. 

Hallam  (Henry),  talking  power,  i.  463  ; 
his  niece,  L  464. 

Halleck  (Fitz- Greene),  L  234  ;  on 
Dickens,  ii.  466  note. 

Halliday  (Andrew),  ii.  502. 

Hamlety  a  proposed  outrageous  per- 
formance, i.  318;  an  emendation  for, 

ii.  18-19 ;  performed  at  Preston,  ii. 
148. 

Hampstead  Heath,  Dickens's  partiality 

for,  i.  86,  138,  354. 
Hampstead-road,  Mr.  Jones's  school  in 

the,  i.  42-9  (see  ii.  488-9  note). 
Hansard  (Mr.),  letter  from,  concerning 

Mr.  Macrone,  ii.  73  note. 
Hardwrick  (John),  ii.  99. 
Hard  Times,  proposed  names  for,  ii. 

144-5  >         chosen,  ii.  145  ;  written 

for  Household  Words,  ib.  (see  ii.  517) ; 

Ruskin's  opinion  of,  ii.  145-6 ;  M, 

Taine's  criticism  of,  ii.  146  note. 
Harley  (Mr.),  the  comedian,  i.  160,  161 ; 

ii.  104. 

Harness  (Rev.  Wm.),  i.  407,  ii.  102-3. 
Harrisburg  (U.S.),  levee  at,  i.  258. 
Harrogate,  reading  at,  ii.  275. 


Harte(Bret),  Dickenson,  i.  143;  tribute 
by,  to  Dickens,  i.  143-4. 

Hartford  (U.S.),  levee  at,  i.  221  ;  read- 
ing at,  ii.  434. 

Harvard  and  Oxford  crews,  Dickens  at 
dinner  to,  ii.  501. 

Hastings,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 

Hatton-garden,  Dickens  at,  ii.  123. 

Haunted  Man,  ii.  515  ;  first  idea  of,  i. 
484 ;  suggested  delay  of,  ii.  18 ;  large 
sale  of,  ii.  74 ;  dramatized,  ib. ;  teach- 
ings and  moral  of  the  story,  ii.  75-6 ; 
the  christening  dinner,  ii.  99. 

Hawthorne  (Nathaniel),  Dickens  on, 
ii.  72. 

Haydon  (B.  R.),  death  of,  i.  472. 
Hayes  (Catherine),  ii.  98 ;  startling 

compliment  by  her  mother,  ib. 
Hazlitt's  hut  at  Winterslow,  ii.  93-4. 
Headland  (Mr.)  engaged  by  Dickens, 

ii.  297. 

Heaven,  ambition  to  see  into,  ii.  105. 
Helps  (Sir  Arthur),  ii.  286,  484;  In 

Memoriam  by,  ii.  486. 
Hewitt  (Capt.),  i.  201,  205,  21a 
Hereditary  transmission,  ii.  239-40  note. 
Hertzel  (M.),  i.  453. 
Highgate,  Dora's  grave  at,  ii.  116,  149. 
Highlands,  Dickens's  adventures  in  the 

i.  176-185. 
Hillard  (Mr.),  ii.  104. 
Hindle  (Rev.  Mr.),  ii.  259. 
Hogarth,  Dickens  on,  ii.  52-3. 
Hogarth   (George),   i.   64 ;  Dickens 

marries  eldest  daughter  of,  i.  67. 
Hogarth  (Mrs.),  i.  388,  523;  death  of 

her  mother,  i.  198. 
Hogarth  (Georgina),  i.  199,  367,  380, 

389,  397,  405,  465,  491,  512,  ii.  67, 

89,  97,  441,  510-11    (see  522-3); 

Dickens's  sketch  of,  i.  317  (and  see 

ii-  379)  >  Maclise's  portrait  of,  i.  317, 
Hogarth  (Mary),  death  of,  i.  76;  epitaph 

on  her  tomb,  i.  77  note  (and  see  i. 

93) ;  Dickens's  loving  memory  of,  i. 

76,  94,  198-9,  287,  387-8,  411  note, 

ii.  91,  497. 

Holiday  Romance  and  George  Silver- 


542 


Index. 


man's  Explanation,  high  price  paid 
for,  ii,  370  (and  see  291  note,  and 

323,  521). 
Holland  (Lord),  i.  418. 
Holland  (Lady),  a  remembrance  of, 

i.  421. 

Holland  (Captain),  the  Monthly  Maga- 
zine conducted  by,  i.  64. 

Holyhead,  a  Fenian  at,  ii.  319-20  note. 

Home  and  Abroad  (Macrae's),  ii,  467 
note. 

Hone  of  the  Every  Day  Book,  i.  304. 
Honesty,  Carlyle  on,  i.  236 ;  under  a 

cloud,  i.  361-2. 
Hood  (Thomas),  i.  322,  417;  Up  the 
Rhine  reviewed,  i.   121 ;  interview 
with  a  literary  pirate,  i.  351  note; 
Tylney  Hall,  i.  472. 

Hop-pickers,  ii.  260. 

Home  (R.  H.),  il  104. 

Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  Dickens's 
exertions  on  behalf  of,  ii.  248-54 ; 
described  by  Dickens,  ii.  250-1  ; 
Carol  reading  for,  ii.  254. 

Hotels,  American,  i.  209,  ii.  395,  397, 
400,  408 ;  extortion  at,  i.  244. 

Hotten's  Life  of  Dickens,  erroneous 
statement  in,  ii.  484  note. 

Houghton  (Lord),  ii.  loi,  479-80,  508. 

Houghton  (Lady),  ii.  485. 

Household  Words  in  contemplation,  i. 
510  note,  ii.  78-81  ;  Mr.  Wills  ap- 
pointed assistant  editor,  ii.  80;  title 
selected  for,  ii.  81  ;  names  proposed 
for,  ib. ;  first  number,  ib.  (see  ii.  516) ; 
early  contributors,  ib.-y  Mrs.  Gaskell's 
story,  ib.',  unwise  printed  statement 
in,  ii.  254 ;  discontinued,  ii.  282  (and 
see  152) ;  Christmas  Nos.  ii.  516-18. 

Hudson  (George)  in  exile,  ii.  306. 

Huflfham  (Mr.),  i.  18. 

Hugo  (Victor),  an  evening  with,  i.  520-1. 

Hulkes  (Mr.),  ii.  259  note,  293. 

Hull,  reading  at,  ii.  277. 

Hume  (A.  B. ),  Christmas  Memorial  of 
Charles  Dickens  by,  ii.  469  note. 

Humour,  Americans  destitute  of,  i.  284 ; 
a  favourite  bit  of,  i.  354  ;  the  leading  | 


quality  of  Dickens,  ii.  341-2 ;  Lord 
Lytton  on  the  employment  of,  by 
novelists,  ii.  347  note ;  Dickens's  en- 
joyment of  his  own,  ii.  347-50 ;  the 
true  province  of,  ii.  389. 

Hungerford-market,  i.  24-38  (and  see 
ii.  488  note). 

Hunt  (Holman),  ii.  293. 

Hunt  (Leigh),  saying  of,  i.  76 ;  on 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  i.  iii ;  Civil-list 
pension  given  to,  iL  4;  theatrical 
benefit  for,  ii.  4-7  (see  9) ;  result 
of  performances,  ii.  7 ;  a  last  glimpse, 
ii.  124  note;  letter  of  Dickens  to,  in 
self-defence,  ii.  125 ;  the  original  of 
Harold  Skimpole  in  Bleak  House,  ii. 
123-4;  inauguration  of  bust  at  Kensal- 
green,  ii.  470. 

Hunt  (John),  i.  472. 

Hunted  Down,  high  price  paid  for,  ii. 
291*  370;  germ  of,  ii.  373  (see  ii.  518). 

Hurdle  race  at  Gadshill,  ii.  487. 


Idylls  of  Tennyson,  Dickens  on,  ii.  352 
note. 

Imaginative  life,  tenure  of,  ii.  245. 
Improprieties  of  speech,  i  475-6. 
Incurable  Hospital,  patients  in,  ii.  379, 
Indians,  i.  284  ;  treaties  with,  i.  258. 
'  Inimitable, '  as  applied  to  Dickens, 

origin  of  the  term,  i.  12. 
Inn,  a  log-house,  i.  283-4. 
Innkeeper,  a  model,  L  258. 
Inns,  American,  Miss  Martineau  on,  i. 

243  (and  see  258  note,  278,  283-5) ; 

Highland,  i.  175,    177,    180,  184; 

Italian,   i.   379,   395,  403-4,  411  ; 

Swiss,  i.  445. 
International  boat-race  dinner,  Dickens 

at,  ii.  501. 
Ipswich,  readings  at,  ii.  279  note,  295. 
Ireland,  a  timely  word  on,  i.  470. 
Ireland  (Mr.  Alexander),  ii.  4. 
Irving  (Washington),  i  197,  222,  234, 

252 ;  appointed  minister  to  Spain, 

i.  249 ;  letter  from  Dickens  to,  i.  195 ; 

a  bad  public  speaker,  i.  zz^y-'j  ;  at 


Index. 


543 


Literary  Fund  dinner  in  London,  i.  | 
227  ;  at  Richmond  (U.S.),  i.  249  ;  his 
leave-taking,  i.  252-3  note. 

Italians  hard  at  work,  i.  423. 

Italy,  art  and  pictures  in,  i.  401-3,  ii. 
173-4  ;  private  galleries,  i.  402  note  ; 
cruelty  to  brutes,  i.  415  note;  way- 
side memorials,  i.  416-17  note;  best 
season  in,  i.  419 ;  fire-flies,  i.  422  ; 
Dickens  revisits,  ii.  161-176 ;  the 
noblest  men  in  exile,  ii.  1 75. 

Jack  Straw's-castle  yUampstead- 
heath),  i.  86,  138,  354. 

Jackson  (Sir  Richard),  i.  292-3. 

Jeffrey  (Lord),  i.  i6o,  173,  190,  ii.  103; 
praise  of  Little  Nell  by,  i.  i68 ;  on 
the  American  Notesy  i.  307-8  ;  praise 
by,  of  the  Carol,  i.  345 ;  on  the 
Chimes,  i.  397,  410 ;  his  opinion  of 
the  Battle  of  Life,  i.  503  ;  forecaste 
of  Dombey,  ii  39  note ;  on  Paul's 
death,  ii.  41-2  note ;  on  the  character 
of  Edith  in  Dombey,  ii.  44  ;  James 
Sheridan  Knowles  and,  ii.  20 ;  touch- 
ing letter  from,  ii.  64;  death  of,  ii.  no. 

Jerrold  (Douglas),  i.  118,  322,  407, 425, 
ii.  100,  117,  157  note ;  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  i.  434;  fancy  sketch  of,  ii. 
13  ;  a  suggestion  for  the  Caudle  lec- 
tures, i.  379  note  ;  last  meeting  with 
Dickens,  ii.  231  ;  death  of^  ib. ;  pro- 
posed memorial  tribute  to,  and  result, 
ii.  232. 

Jesuits  at  Geneva,  rising  against,  i.  469- 
70,  495-7  (and  see  400). 

Johnson  (President),  interview  of 
Dickens  with,  ii.  421 ;  impeachment 
of,  ii.  425-6. 

Johnson  (Reverdy),  at  Glasgow  art- 
dinner,  ii.  445  note. 

Joinville  (Prince  de),  ode  to,  i.  375. 

Jones  (Mr.),  of  "Wellington-house- 
academy,  i.  42,  44,  47  (see  ii.  488-9 
note). 

Jonson  (Ben),  an  experience  of,  ii.  35. 
Jowett  (Prof)  on  Dickens,  ii.  498. 


KjVRR  (Alphonse),  i.  520. 

Kean  (Charles)  at  Exeter,  i.  125. 

Kean  (Dumas'),  i.  372-3,  ii.  473  note. 

Keeley  (Mrs.),  ii.  104;  in  Nicholas 
Nickleby,  i.  115,  350. 

Kelly  (Fanny),  theatre  of,  in  Dean- 
street,  Soho,  i.  433-437,  486;  her 
whims  and  fancies,  i.  434. 

Kemble  (Charles)  and  his  daughters, 
ii.  I02. 

Kemble  (John),  ii.  103. 

Kennedy  (Mr.),  i.  248. 

Kensal-green,  Mary  Hogarth's  tomb  at, 

i.  77  note,  287. 

Kent  (Charles),  ii.  293 ;  his  Charles 
Dickens  as  a  Reader,  ii.  279  note ; 
Dickens's  last  letter  to,  ii.  511. 

Kenyon  (Mrs.),  ii.  100. 

Kissing  the  Rod  (Edmund  Yates'),  ii. 
475- 

ICnebworth,  private  performances  at, 

ii.  83  ;  Dickens  at,  ii.  286. 
Kjiight  (Charles),  ii.  88  note,  104. 
Knowles  (James  Sheridan),  bankruptcy 

of,  ii.  20 ;  scheme  to  benefit,  ib.  ; 
civil-list  pension  granted  to,  ii.  21. 
Knowles  of  Cheetham-hill-road,  i.  125. 


Ladies,  beauty  of  American,  i.  231'; 

eccentric,  i.  491-2. 
Laing  (Mr.),  of  Hatton  Garden,  ii. 

122-3. 

Lamartine  (A.  de),  i.  376,  520,  ii.  204. 
Lamb  (Charles),  boyish  recollection  of, 
i.  II. 

Lameness,  strange  remedy  for,  i.  4. 

Lamert  (Dr.),  i.  ii. 

Lamert  (George),  i.  24,  39. 

Lamert  (James),  private  theatricals  got 
up  by,  i.  II  (see  16);  takes  young 
Dickens  to  the  theatre,  1 1  ;  employs 
Dickens  at  the  blacking-warehouse, 
i.  25  ;  quarrel  of  John  Dickens  with, 
L  38  (and  see  152). 

Lamplighter,  Dickens's  farce  of  the,  i. 
120,  122  ;  turned  into  a  tale  for  the 


544 


Index, 


benefit  of  Mrs.  Macrone,  i.  160-1  (see 
527). 

Lancaster,  reading  at,  ii.  295. 

Landor  (Walter  Savage),  i.  199,  ii.  112 
note,  308  ;  Dickens's  visit  to,  at  Bath, 
i.  132;  mystification  of,  i.  145  ;  Long- 
fellow visits,  i.  298 ;  villa  at  Fiesole, 
i.  417  note ;  the  original  of  Boythom 
in  Bleak  House^  ii.  123  ;  a  fancy  re- 
specting, ii.  444;  Forster's  Life  of, 
i.  132-3  note,  417,  ii.  502. 

Landport  (Portsea),  the  birthplace  of 
Dickens,  i.  3. 

Landseer  (Charles),  i.  122,  ii.  104. 

Landseer  (Edwin),  i.  119,  ii.  98,  100, 
104, 157  note,  198,  281 ;  and  Napoleon 
III.,  ii.  213  note. 

Landseer  (Tom),  i.  122. 

Land's-end,  a  sunset  at,  i.  311. 

Lankester  (Dr.),  ii.  65. 

Lanman  (Mr.),  letter  to,  i.  253  note. 

Lant-street,  Borough,  Dickens's  lodg- 
ings in,  i.  31  ;  the  landlord's  family 
reproduced  in  Old  Curiosity  Shop  as 
the  Garlands,  i.  32. 

Lausanne,  Dickens's  home  at,  i.  445-6, 
448-9 ;  booksellers'  shops,  i.  447 ;  the 
tovm  described,  ib.\  view  of  Rose- 
mont,  i.  448  J  girl  drowned  in  lake, 
i.  451  ;  fetes  at,  i.  460-1,  468-70;  a 
marriage,  i.  461 ;  a  revolution,  i.  469 ; 
the  prison,  i.  452  ;  Blind  Institution, 

i.  452-6,  ii.  163  ;  plague  of  flies,  i. 
459  note  ;  carriage  accident,  i.  464 ; 
feminine  smoking  party,  i.  491-2;  the 
town  revisited,  ii.  163. 

Lawes  (Rev.  T.  B.),  club  established 

by,  at  Rothamsted,  ii.  285. 
Lawrence  (Abbot),  ii.  104. 
Layard  (A.  H.),  ii.  167  ;  at  Gadshill, 

ii.  486. 

Lazy  Tour  projected,  ii.  233  (and  see 

348,  517). 

Lazzaroni,  what  they  really  are,  i.  415. 

Leech  (John),  at  Miss  Kelly's  theatre, 
i.  434;  grave  mistake  by,  in  Battle 
of  Life  illustration,  i.  505 ;  fancy 
sketch  of,  ii.  13;  Dickeus  on  his  Rising 


Generation,  ii.  54-7  ;  what  he  will  be 
remembered  for,  ii.  56;  accident  to, 
at  Bonchurch,  ii.  69-70 ;  at  Brighton, 
ii.  59;  at  Boulogne,  ii.  183;  death  of, 
ii.  310  (and  see  366). 

Leech  (Mrs.),  ii.  70,  183. 

Leeds,  reading  at,  ii.  277. 

Leeds  Mechanics'  Society,  Dickens  at 
meeting  of  the,  ii.  19. 

Legends  and  Lyrics  (Adelaide  Procter's), 
ii.  475-6. 

Legerdemain  in  perfection,  ii.  187-90. 

Leghorn,  Dickens  at,  ii.  165. 

Legislatures,  local,  L  258. 

Legouvet  (M.),  ii.  205. 

Lehmann  (Frederic),  ii.  267,  293. 

Leigh  (Percival),  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  i.  434. 

Lemaitre  (Frederic),  acting  of,  ii.  195-6 
(and  see  495). 

Lemon  (Mark),  ii.  116;  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  i.  434,  435  ;  as  Falstaff,  ii,  22 ; 
fancy  sketch  of,  ii.  13 ;  Haunted 
Man  adapted  by,  ii.  74 ;  farce  written 
for  the  Guild,  ii.  84;  acting  with  chil- 
dren, ii.  156  ;  death  of,  ii.  508. 

Leslie  (Charles  Robert),  ii.  198  (see  i. 
245),  ii.  213  note. 

Letter-opening  at  the  General  Post- 
Office,  i.  359. 

Levees  in  the  United  States,  i.  221,  245, 
258,  264,  273,  282  ;  queer  customers 
at,  i.  264  ;  what  they  are  like,  282. 

Lever  (Charles),  1,  416  ;  tale  by,  in  All 
the  Year  Round,  ii.  286. 

Lewes  (George  Henry),  Dickens's  regard 
for,  iL  104 ;  his  critical  essay  on 
Dickens,  in  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
noticed,  ii.  334-39- 

Library,  a  gigantic,  i.  478-9. 

Life  of  Christ,  written  by  Dickens  for 
his  children,  i.  457  (see  ii.  468). 

Life-preservers,  i.  266. 

Lighthouse,  Carlyle  on  Dickens's  acting 
in  the,  ii.  159;  Stanfield's  scene 
painted  for,  ib.  note,  284. 

Lincoln  (President),  curious  story  re- 
specting, ii.  419-20  (and  see  485). 


Index. 


545 


Lincoln's-inn  fields,  a  reading  of  the 

Chimes  in,  i.  398,  407-8. 
Linda,  Dickens's  dog,  ii.  267,  493  ; 

burial-place  of,  ii.  270. 
Liston  (Robert),  ii.  104. 
Literary  Fund  dinner,  i.  227  (and  see 

ii.  470). 

Literature,  a  substitute  for,  i.  290 ;  too 
much  *  patronage  '  of,  in  England,  ii. 
470. 

Litterateur,  a  fellow,  i.  516. 

Little  Dorrit  begun,  ii.  160  (see  517) ; 
the  title  that  was  first  chosen,  ii.  221  ; 
fac-simile  of  plan  prepared  for  first 
number, ii.  224;  sale  of,  ii.  225  ;  gene- 
ral design,  ii.  222  ;  weak  points  in, 
ii.  226  ;  criticized  in  Blackwood,  ii. 
228  ;  Von  Moltke  and,  ii.  228-9 ; 
original  of  Mrs.  Clennam,  ii.  371  ; 
notions  for,  ii.  371. 

Little  Nell,  first  thought  of,  i.  132  ; 
Florence  Dombey  and,  ii.  42  ;  Sara 
Coleridge  on,  ii.  343  note, 

Liverpool,  readings  at,  ii.  272,  302,  315, 
317  ;  Dickens's  speech  at  Mechanics' 
Institution,  i.  350 ;  Leigh  Hunt's 
benefit,  ii.  4-7  (see  9) ;  public  dinner 
to  Dickens,  ii.  446,  479-80. 

Loch-eam-head,  postal  service  at,  i. 
180. 

Lockhart  (Mr.  J.),  i.  121,  ii.  169. 
Locock  (Dr.),  ii.  99. 
Lodi,  Dickens  at,  i.  401-6. 
Logan  Stone,  Stanfield's  sketch  of,  i. 
312. 

London,  pictures  of,  in  Dickens's 
books,  i.  112;  readings  in,  ii.  271, 

295-6,  303,  313,  442. 

Longfellow  (Henry  Wadsworth),  i.  209, 
234 ;  among  London  thieves  and 
tramps,  i.  297  (and  see  323) ;  at  Gads- 
hill,  ii.  266,  441  J  on  Dickens's  death, 
ii.  390. 

Longman  (Thomas),  ii.  99. 

Louis  Philippe,  a  glimpse  of,  i.  512  (see 
ii.  203)  ;  dethronement  of,  ii.  46. 

Lovelace  (Lord),  ii.  99. 

Lowther,   Mr.    (charge  d'affaires  at 

VOL.  II. 


Naples),  difficulty  in  finding  house  of, 
ii.  167-9. 

Lumley  (Mr.),  ii.  99. 

Lynn  (Mr.),  ii.  259. 

Lytton  (Lord),  i.  416,  ii.  496  (and  see 
ii.  286) ;  prologue  written  by,  for 
Ben  Jonson's  play,  ii.  6  note ; 
Dickens's  admiration  for,  i.  153,  ii. 
86-7  note,  102,  286  ;  performance  of 
his  comedy  of  Not  so  Bad  as  we  Seem 
at  Devonshire  House,  ii.  87 ;  at 
Manchester,  ii.  90;  his  opinion  of 
Copperfield,  ii.  120 ;  St7-ange  Story 
contributed  to  All  the  Year  Round, 
ii.  296 ;  Dickens's  reply  to  remon- 
strance from,  ii.  341  ;  his  defence  of 
humourists,  ii.  347  note  ;  suggestion 
as  to  close  of  Great  Expectations,  ii. 
361;  letter  of  Dickens  to,  from  Cam- 
bridge (U.  S. ),  concerning  the  Webster 
murder,  ii.  406-7  ;  death  of,  and  cha- 
racter, ii.  86. 

Lytton  (Robert),  ii.  198. 


M'Ian  the  actor,  i.  170,  173. 

Mackenzie  (Dr.  Shelton)  and  Cruik- 
shank's  illustrations  to  Oliver  Twist, 
i.  loi  note ;  rigmarole  concerning 
Dickens  and  Her  Majesty,  ii.  481-2 
note. 

Maclise  (Daniel),  i.  120,  150,  174,  200, 
296,  320,  397,  407,  425,  434,  ii.  16 
note,  iio-ii  note;  his  portrait  of 
Dickens,  i.  117  note;  social  charm 
of,  i.  118-19  ;  his  apotheosis  of  Grip, 
i.  159  ;  his  play-scene  in  Hamlet,  i. 
251  ;  among  London  tramps,  i.  297  ; 
sketches  in  Cornwall  by,  i.  312; 
letter  from,  on  the  Cornwall  trip, 
312-13;  his  'Girl  at  the  Waterfall,' 
i.  313  ;  paints  Mrs.  Dickens's  por- 
trait, ib.',  pencil  drawing  of  Charles 
Dickens,  his  wife,  and  her  sister,  i. 
317  ;  Dickens's  address  to,  i.  365-66  ; 
sketch  of  the  private  reading  in  Lin- 
coln's-inn-fields,  i.  407 ;  house  in 
Devonshire  terrace  sketched  by,  ii, 
N  N 


Index. 


546 

119;  death  of,  ii.  507;  tribute  of 
Dickens  to,  ib. 
Ma^millarHs  Magazine^  paper  in,  on 
Dickens's  amateur  theatricals,  ii.  157 
note. 

Macrae  (David),  Home  and  Abroad  by, 
ii.  467  note. 

Macready  (William  Charles),  i.  118, 
121,  160,  174,  I9S-7,  234,  320;  at 
Covent-garden,  i.  91  ;  dinner  to,  on 
his  retirement  from  management,  i. 
122 ;  dinner  prior  to  American  visit, 
i.  321 ;  an  apprehended  disservice  to, 

i.  321  ;  in  New  Orleans,  i.  355  ;  in 
Paris,  i.  408,  ii.  198  ;  anecdote  of, 

ii.  6  note  ;  Dickens's  affection  for,  i. 
396,  ii.  98 ;  farewell  dinner  to,  ii. 
85-6  ;  at  Sherborne,  ii.  243-4 ;  his 
opinion  of  the  Sikes  and  Nancy 
scenes,  ii.  444  ;  misgiving  of  Dickens 
respecting,  iu  444,  502. 

Macready  (Mrs.),  ii.  98 ;  death  of,  ii.  151. 

Macrone  (Mr.)  copyright  of  Sketches  by 
Boz  sold  to,  i.  66 ;  scheme  to 
reissue  Sketches^  i.  78 ;  exorbitant 
demand  by,  i.  79,  ii.  73  note ;  close 
of  dealings  with,  i.  80 ;  a  friendly 
plea  for,  ii.  73  note. 

Magnetic  experiments,  i,  265-6. 

Makeham  (Mr.),  Dickens's  letter  to,  ii. 
469. 

Malleson  (Mr.),  ii.  293. 
Malthus  philosophy,  i.  471. 
Managerial  troubles,  ii.  21  note,  71, 
89-90. 

Manby  (Charles),  pleasing  trait  of,  ii. 
306. 

Manchester,  Dickens's  speech  at  open- 
ing of  Athenseum,  i.  323  (and  see  ii. 
281 ) ;  Leigh  Hunt's  benefit,  ii.  4-7  ; 
readings  at,  ii.  276,  295,  302,  313, 
31S,  318. 

Manchester  (Bishop  of),  on  Dickens's 

writings,  ii.  389. 
Manin  (Daniel),  ii.  197. 
Mannings,  execution  of  the,  ii.  106. 
Manon  Lescaut^  Auber's  opera  of,  ii. 

205.  i 


Mansion-house    dinner  to  'literature 
'  and  art,'  ii.  105  ;  a  doubtful  com- 
pliment, ii.  io6  ;  suppressed  letter  of 
Dickens  respecting,  ib. 
Manson  (Mr.),  i.  18. 
Manson  (J.  B.),  Dickens's  letter  to,  ii. 

470  note. 
Marcet  (Mrs.),  i.  450,  464,  486. 
Margate  theatre,  burlesque  of  classic 
tragedy  at,  i.  299-300  (and  see  ii. 
17). 

Mario  (Signor),  i.  408. 
Marryat  (Captain)   on  the  effect  in 
America  of  the  Nickleby  dedication, 
i.  321  ;  fondness  of,  for  children,  ii. 

lOI. 

Marshalsea  prison,  Dickens's  first  and 
last  visits  to,  i.  20-1,  ii.  227  ;  an 
incident  in,  described  by  Dickens, 
i.  35-6  (and  see  ii.  228). 
Marston's  (Mr.  Westland)  Patrician's 
Daughter,  Dickens's  prologue  to,  i. 
315. 

Martineau  (Harriet)  on  American  inns* 

i.  243,  258  note. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit,  agreement  for,  L 
191  (and  see  328,  528 )  ;  original  of 
Eden,  i.  256,  261  j  fancy  for  opening, 
i,  298,  313 ;  first  year  of,  i.  311-27  ; 
names  first  given  to,  i.  313-14 ; 
Sydney  Smith's  opinion  of  first  num- 
ber, i.  314  (see  335)  ;  original  of 
Mrs.  Gamp,  i.  319 ;  sale  less  than 
former  books,  i.  327  (and  see  ii.  76) ; 
unlucky  clause  in  agreement,  i.  328  ; 
Dickens's  own  opinion  of,  i.  331  ; 
the  story  characterized,  i.  335-342; 
Thackeray's  favourite  scene,  i.  338 ; 
intended  motto  for,  i.  340  ;  M.  Taine 
on,  i.  338-340 ;  christening  diimer, 
i.  360 ;  Sara  Coleridge  on,  ii.  344 
note. 

Master  Humphreys  Clock  projected,  i. 
127-131  ;  first  sale  of,  i.  134  ;  first 
number  published,  i.  148  (see  527) ; 
original  plan  abandoned,  L  134  (see  ii. 
145) ;  dinner  in  celebration  of,  i.  160  j 
i      Clock  discontents,  i.  190. 


Index. 


547 


Mazeppa  at  Ramsgate,  i.  438  note. 
Mazzini  (Joseph),  Dickens's  interest  in 

his  school,  ii.  103. 
Meadows  (Mr.)  of  Covent  Garden,  ii. 

502. 

Mediterranean,  sunset  on  the,  i.  366. 
Memoires  du  Viable,  a  pretty  tag  to, 
iL  202-3. 

Memoranda,  extracts  from  Dickens's 

book  of,  ii.  370-86 ;  available  names 

in,  ii.  384-6. 
Mendicity  Society,  the,  i.  358. 
Mesmerism,  Dickens's  interest  in,  i. 

189,  ii.  70. 
Mezieres  (M. )  on  Dickens,  ii.  333  note. 
Micawber  (Mr. ),  in  David  Copperfield, 

original  of,  ii.  126-7  J  comparison 

between  and  Harold  Skimpole,  ii. 

128 ;  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes  on,  ii.  332, 

338. 

Middle  Temple,  Dickens  entered  at,  i. 
121,  123. 

Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  Boulogne,  ii.  182. 

Miles  (Monckton),  ii.  loi. 

Mirror  of  Parliament^  Dickens  report- 
ing for,  i.  57  (see  63). 

Mississippi,  the,  i.  273. 

Mistletoe  from  England,  ii.  404. 

Mitchell  (Mr. )  the  comedian,  i.  299. 

Mitton  (Thomas),  i.  51,  119,  123,  ii. 
104. 

Molesworth  (Lady),  ii.  99. 
MoUoy  (Mr.),  i.  51. 

Moltke  (Von)  and  Little  Dorrit,  ii. 
228-9. 

Money  (Lord  Lytton's),  a  performance 
of,  at  Doncaster,  ii.  237  note. 

Monks  and  painters,  i.  403. 

Mont  Blanc,  effect  of^  on  Dickens,  i. 
465-6. 

Montreal,    private    theatricals  in,  i. 

293-4  J  fac-simile  of  play-bill,  i.  295. 
Moore  (George),  business  qualities  and 

benevolence,  ii.  287-8. 
Moore  (Thomas),  i.  167,  227. 
Morgue  at  Paris,  i.  513  ;  a  tenant  of 

the,  i.  517.  I 


Morning  Chronicle,  Dickens  a  reporter 
for  the,  L  58 ;  liberality  of  pro- 
prietors, i.  60 ;  change  of  editorship, 

i.  319  (see  65  and  356)  ;  articles  by 
Dickens  in,  i.  356. 

Morning  Herald,  John  Dickens  a  re- 
porter for,  i.  53. 

Morris  (Mowbray),  ii.  99. 

Morris  (General  George),  i.  223. 

Motley  (Mr.),  ii.  508. 

Moulineaux,  Villades,  ii.  177-82, 190-2. 

Mountain  travelling,  i.  464. 

Mr.  Nightingale's  Diary,  the  Guild 
farce,  ii.  159, 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings,  ii.  362,  520. 

Mugby  Junction,  The  Boy  at,  ii.  369  ; 
germ  of,  in  Memoranda,  ii.  381. 

Mule- travelling  in  Switzerland,  i.  4b 5, 

ii.  162. 

Mulgrave  (Lord),  i.  203,  206,  209,  292, 

266;  ii.  99-100. 
Mumbo-Jumbo,  ii.  72. 
Murray  (Mr.)  the  manager,  i.  171. 
Murray  (Lord),  i.  173,  ii.  103. 
Music,  its  effect  on  a  deaf,  dumb,  and 

blind  girl,  i.  456  ;  vagrant,  ii.  17,  71. 


Names,  available,  ii.  384-6. 

Naples,  burial  place  at,  i.  414-15  note  ; 

filth  of,  i.  415  (and  see  ii.  176) ; 

Dickens's  adventure  at,  ii.  167-9. 
Napoleon  III.  at  Gore-house,  i.  522 

note ;  at  Boulogne,  ii.  185  ;  at  Paris, 

ib.  note,  198  ;  Edwin  Landseer  and, 

ii.  213  note. 
Napoleon  (Prince),  i.  522  note. 
Nautical  incident  at  Genoa,  i.  421. 
Neaves  (Mr.),  i.  172. 
Negri  (Marquis  di),  i.  374-6. 
Negro  in  America,  objections  to,  ii.418. 
New  Bedford  (U.S.),  reading  at,  ii. 

431- 

Newcastle,  readings  at,  ii.  295,  299, 
3  19  ;  alarming  scene  at,  ii.  299-300. 

Newhaven  (U.S.).  levee  at,  i.  221  ; 
reading  at,  ii.  424. 

N  N  2 


548 


Index. 


New  Sentimental  Journey  (Collins's), 
ii.  294. 

Newspaper  express  forty  years  ago,  i. 
60. 

Newspaper-press-fund  dinner,  Dickens's 

speech  at,  i.  60. 
Newspapers,  American,  ii.  404, 
Newsvendors*  dinner,  Dickens  at,  ii. 

506. 

New  Testament,  Dickens's  version  of, 

i.  457  (see  ii.  468,  524). 
New-year's  day  in  Paris,  ii,  211. 

New  York,  fac-similes  of  invitations  to 
Dickens,  i.  213-18;  the  Carlton 
hotel,  i,  222  (and  see  ii.  401) ;  ball 
at,  i.  223-4  ;  life  in,  i.  229  ;  hotel 
bills,  i.  234  (and  see  244)  ;  public 
institutions  ill-managed,  i.  239 ; 
prisons,  i.  240-5 ;  capital  punish- 
ment, i.  242  ;  sale  of  tickets  for  the 
readings,  ii.  399 ;  first  reading  in, 
ib.  ;  fire  at  the  Westminster  hotel, 

ii.  400,  402 ;  prodigious  increase 
since  Dickens's  former  visit,  ii.  401  ; 
Niblo's  theatre,  ib.\  sleigh- driving, 
ii.  402  ;  police,  ii.  403  (and  see  i. 
240) ;  the  Irish  element,  ii.  413 ; 
farewell  readings,  ii.  434 ;  public 
dinner  to  Dickens,  ib. 

New  York  Herald,  i.  226. 

New  York  Ledger,  high  price  paid  for 

tale  by  Dickens  in,  ii.  291. 
New  York  Tribune,  Dickens's  '  violated 

*  letter '  published  in  the,  ii.  255, 

276. 

Niagara  Falls,  effect  of,  on  Dickens, 
i.  287  (and  see  ii.  426-7). 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  agreement  for,  i.  95 ; 
first  number  of,  i.  98,  108  (see  526)  ; 
sale  of,  i.  98  ;  the  Saturday  Review 
on,  i.  108;  characters  in,  i.  109-113 
(see  ii.  391)  ;  opinions  of  Sydney 
Smith  and  Leigh  Hunt  on,  i.  i  lo-i  i 
(see  115)  ;  Dickens  at  work  on,  i. 
1 1 2-1 6;  dinner  celebration,  i.  117- 
originals  of  the  Brothers  Cheery ble, 
i.  119;  theatrical  adaptation  of,  i. 
114;  originals  of  Mr,  Micawber  and 


Mrs,  Nickleby,  ii,  125  ;  proclamation 
on  the  eve  of  publication,  i,  353  note ; 
its  effect  in  establishing  Dickens,  ii. 
343. 

Nicolson  (Sir  Frederick),  i.  421. 
Nightingales  at  Gadshill,  ii,  264. 
Nobody's  Fault,  the  title  first  chosen 

for  Little  Dorrit,  ii.  221. 
No-Popery  riots,  description  of  the,  i. 

163. 

Normanby  (Lord),  i.  360,  512. 

Norton  (Charles  Eliot),  ii.  265,  441. 

Norwich,  readings  at,  ii.  279  note. 

No  Thoroughfare,  i.  91,  ii.  369,  521. 

Novels,  real  people  in,  ii.  120-1  ;  epi- 
sodes in,  ii.  227. 

Novelists,  design  for  cheap  edition  of 
the  old,  ii.  16. 

Nugent  (Lord),  ii.  102. 


'Ocean  Spectre,'  the,  ii.  3  note. 

O'Connell  (Daniel),  i.  378  (see  concern- 
ing tribute,  450  note). 

Odeon  (Paris),  Dickens  at  the,  ii.  199. 

Ogre  and  lambs,  i,  475-6. 

Ohio,  on  the,  i.  267. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  original  of  the 
Marchioness  in,  i.  31  ;  originals  of 
the  Garland  family,  i.  32;  original 
of  the  poet  in  Jarley's  waxwork,  i.  39  ; 
the  story  commenced,  i.  132  (see  527) ; 
disadvantages  of  weekly  publication, 
i,  135  ;  changes  in  proofs,  i.  136 ; 
Maclise's  wish  to  illustrate,  i.  137; 
Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness, 
i.  137 ;  effect  of  story  upon  the  writer, 
i.  138;  death  of  Little  Nell,  i.  139  ; 
close  of  the  tale,  i.  140  (see  155) ;  its 
success,  ib. ;  characterized,  i.  141-2  ; 
a  tribute  by  Bret  Harte,  i.  143-4  J 
characters  in,  ii.  343. 

Old  Mojithly  Magazine,  Dickens's  first 
published  piece  in,  i.  59 ;  other 
sketches,  i.  64. 

Oliver  Tzvist,  commenced  in  Bentley's 
Miscellany,  i,  78  (see  526-528) ;  cha- 
racters in,  real  to  Dickens,  i.  81,  95  ; 


Index, 


549 


the  story  characterized,  i.  95-6, 
103-5  ;  Dickens  at  work  on,  i.  99  ;  the 
last  chapter,  i.  100 ;  the  Cruikshank 
illustrations,  i.  i<x>-io2,  ii.  31-34 ; 
reputation  of,  i.  102  ;  reply  to  attacks 
against,  i.  104-5  ;  teaching  of,  i.  105; 
*  adapted '  for  the  stage,  i.  114; 
noticed  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  i. 
121  ;  copyright  repurchased,  i.  150  ; 
original  of  Mr.  Fang,  ii.  122-3  ;  cha- 
racter-drawing in,  ii.  342  ;  proposed 
reading  from,  ii.  441-2 ;  facsimile  of 
portion  of  MS.,  ii.  457. 

Orford  (Lord),  ii.  286. 

Osgood  (Mr.),  ii.  423,  426. 

Opium-den,  an,  ii.  501-2  (and  see  453 
note). 

Osnaburgh-terrace,  family  difficulty  in, 

i.  357-9. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,\\.  525  ;  title  chosen 
for,  ii.  363  ;  hints  for,  in  Memoranda, 

ii.  374-5  ;  first  notion  for,  ii.  363 ; 
original  of  Mr.  Venus,  ii.  365  ;  Mar- 
cus Stone  chosen  as  illustrator,  ii. 
364  note ;  the  story  reviewed,  ii. 
367-8. 

Ouvry  (Frederic),  ii.  509  ;  clause  in- 
serted by,  in  agreement  for  Echuin 
Drood,  ii.  451  note  ;  humorous  letters 
of  Dickens  to,  ii.  429,  496. 

Overs  (John),  Dickens's  interest  in,  i. 
359  ;  death  of,  i.  360  note. 

Owen  (Prof.),  ii.  105. 

Oxford  the  pot-boy  traitor,  i.  149. 

Paintings,  Dickens  on,  1.  401-3,  ii. 
173-4. 

Paradise  Lost  at  the  Ambigu,  Paris, 
ii.  200-1. 

Paris,  Dickens's  first  day  in,  i.  509  ; 
Sunday  in,  i.  5^0  i  Dickens's  houses 
described,  i.  510-11,  ii.  196;  un- 
healthy political  symptoms,  i.  512-13  ; 
the  Morgue,  i.  513,  517  ;  incident  in 
streets,  1.513;  population  of,  ib. ;  hard 
frost,  i.  515;  an  alarming  neighbour, 
begging-letter  writers,  i.  517; 


sight-seeing,  i.  519  ;  theatres,  ib.^  ii. 
Ill  note,  198-9,  200-3;  the  Praslin 
tragedy,  ii.  16 ;  Dickens's  life  in,  ii^ 
194-218 ;  personal  attentions  to 
Dickens,  ii,  197  ;  regiments  in  streets, 
ii.  210 ;  illumination  of,  ii.  211  ;  New- 
year's  day,  ib.  ;  results  of  imperial 
improvement,  ib.  note;  Art  Exposi- 
tion, ii.  212-3  ;  a  Duchess  murdered, 
ii.  216;  readings  at,  ii.  295,  305. 

Parliament,  old  Houses  of,  inconve- 
nience of  the,  i.  61. 

Parr  (Plarriet),  Dickens's  letter  to,  il 

474-5. 
Parry  (John),  ii.  104. 
Pawnbrokers,  Dickens's  early  experience 

of,  i.  21-2. 
Paxton  (Sir  Joseph),  death  of,  ii.  311 

note. 

Peel  (Sir  Robert)  and  his  party,  i.  186  ; 

Lord  Ashley  and  Peel,  i.  192  ;  the 

Whigs  and  Peel,  i.  471. 
Peerages  (life),  ii.  479  note. 
Pen  Photographs  (Miss  Field's),  ii.  279 

note. 

Perth,  reading  at,  ii.  278. 

Peschiere,  Palazzo  (Genoa),  rooms  in, 
hired  by  Dickens,  i.  374;  a  fellow- 
tenant,  ib.  ;  other  tenants,  i.  420-1  , 
described,  i.  381-3  ;  view  of  the 
palace,  i.  382;  revisited,  ii.  164; 
dinner-party  at,  i.  405  ;  owner  of  the, 
ii.  164. 

Petersham,  athletic  sports  at,  i.  120. 

Phelps  (Mr.),  ii.  104. 

Philadelphia,  Dickens  at,  i.  237-53  ; 

penitentiary  at,  i.  244-5  j  levee  at,  i. 

245  ;  letters  from,  ii.  423  (and  see 

i.  308). 

Pichot  (Amed^e),  i.  520,  ii.  204. 

Pickwick  Papers^  materials  for,  i.  36  ; 
first  number,  i.  67-8  (see  524-5)  . 
origin  of,  i.  67  ;  Seymour's  illustra- 
tions, i.  67  (see  69  note) ;  Thackeray's 
offer  to  illustrate,  i.  71-2  ;  suspended 
for  two  months,  i.  77  (see  152  note)  ; 
the  debtors'  prison,  i.  82-3  ;  popu- 
larity of,  i.  83  (and  see  ii,  390  -1)  ; 


550 


Index, 


reality  of  characters,  i.  84  ;  inferior  to 
later  books,  i.  85  ;  Mr.  Pickwick  an 
undying  character,  i.  85  (and  see  69, 
ii.  391) ;  piracies  of,  i.  89;  completion 
of>  i-  93  ;  payments  for,  i.  94 ;  a  holy 
brother  of  St.  Bernard  and,  i.  481  ; 
characters  in,  ii.  342  ;  where  it  was 
begun,  ii.  501  ;  first  popular  edition 
of,  ii.  18  ;  translated  into  Russian, 
ii.  77;  Lord  Campbell  on,  ii.  159. 
Pictures  from  Jtaly^  original  of  the 
courier  in,  i.  404 ;  publication  com- 
menced in  the  Daily  News^  i*  44' 
(see  528). 

Pic  Nic  Papers  published,  i."  161  (see 

80  and  527). 
Pictures,  subjects  for,  i.  187-8. 
*  Piljians  Projiss,'  a  new,  ii.  7-14- 
Pig-market  at  Boulogne,  ii.  182. 
Pipchin  (Mrs.)  in  Dofnbey,  original  of, 

i.  28,  36,  ii,  37 ;  various  names  pro- 
posed for,  ii.  37  note. 
Pirates,  literary,  i.  350 ;  proceedings  in 

Chancery  against,  i.  35 1-2  ;  warning 

to,  i.  353  note. 
Pisa,  a  jaunt  to,  ii.  165. 
Pittsburg  (U.S.),  description  of,  i.  263  ; 

levees  at,  i.  264 ;  solitary  prison,  i. 

267. 

Plessy  (M.),  acting  of,  ii.  198. 

Poets,  small,  ii.  471. 

Political  squibs  by  Dickens,  i.  187-9. 

Pollock  (Chief  Baron)  on  the  death  of 
Dickens,  ii.  286  note. 

Poole  (John),  aid  rendered  to,  by 
Dickens,  ii.  4  (see  9) ;  granted  a  civil- 
list  pension,  ii.  21 ;  at  Regnier's 
child's  funeral,  ii.  65. 

Poor,  Dickens's  sympathy  with  the,  i. 
no,  167,  386,  456. 

Popularity,  distresses  of,  i.  229. 

Porte  St.  Martin  theatre  (Paris),  Dickens 
at,  ii.  200. 

Portland  (U.S.)  burnt  and  rebuilt,  ii. 
432 ;  readings  at,  ii.  433. 

Portrait  painter,  story  of  a,  ii.  496-7. 

Portsea,  birth  of  Dickens  at,  i.  3. 

Potter,  a  fellow-clerk  of  Dickens's,  i.  52. 


Power  (Major),  i.  522-3  note. 

Power  (Miss  Marguerite),  ii.  293. 

Prairie,  an  American,  i.  278-80 ;  pro- 
nunciations of  the  word,  i.  281. 

Praslin  tragedy  in  Paris,  ii.  16. 

Prayer,  Dickens  on  personal,  ii.  468. 

Preston  (Mr.),  i.  247. 

Prescott  (W.  H.),  ii.  104. 

Preston,  a  strike  at,  ii.  147-8 ;  Hamlet 
at,  ii.  148. 

Primrose  (Mr.),  i.  172. 

Printers'  Pension  fund  dinner,  presided 
over  by  Dickens,  i.  322. 

Prisons,  visits  to  London,  i.  189 ; 
American,  i  239-43,  244-5,  267-8; 
Lausanne,  i.  452 ;  comparison  of 
systems  pursued  in,  i.  243. 

Procter  (Bryan  Waller),  i.  I2i  note, 
416,  ii.  124,  503  ;  Dickens's  affection 
for,  ii.  98. 

Procter  (Mrs.),  ii.  98. 

Procter  (Adelaide),  Dickens's  apprecia- 
tion of  her  poems,  ii.  475-6. 

Providence  (U.S.),  reading  at,  ii.  424. 

Publishers,  hasty  compacts  with,  i.  78, 
87,  107  ;  Dickens's  agreements  with, 

i.  345,  ii.  152  (and  see  ii.  282- 
4). 

Publishers  and  authors,  i.  328,  333,  iU 
471-2. 

Puddings,  a  choice  of,  i.  29. 

'  Punch  people  '  and  Lord  Brougham, 

ii.  99  ;  at  a  Mansion-house  dinner, 
ii.  105. 


Q,  Dickens's  secretary  in  the  United 
States,  i.  208,  222,  229,  243,  263, 
265,  278,  284  ;  described,  i.  291-2 
(and  see  ii.  396  note). 

Quack  doctor's  proclamation,  i.  186- 
87. 

Quarterly  Review  prophecy  not  fulfilled, 
i.  91  note  ;  notice  of  Oliver  Twisty 

i.  121. 

Queen  (Her  Majesty  the)  and  Auber, 

ii.  203-4 ;  alleged  offers  to  Dickens, 
ii-  481,  and  481-2  note  ;  desire  to  see 


Index. 


551 


Dickens  act,  ii.  482 ;  Thackeray's 
copy  of  the    Carols  iL  484  note ; 
Dickens's  interview  with,  ii.  484-5  ; 
grief  at  Dickens's  death,  ii.  512. 
Quin  (Dr.).  i.  153 ;  522  note,  ii.  98. 

Rachel  (Madame),  caprice  of,  ii.  205. 
Ragged  schools,  Dickens's  interest  in, 

i.  323  ;  results  of,  ib.  note  (and  see 
457)  y  proposed  paper  on,  by  Dickens, 
declined  by  Edinburgh  Review,  i. 
324. 

Railroads,  American,  ladies'  cars  on,  i. 
238. 

Railway  travelling,  effect  on  Dickens, 

ii.  443  ;  in  America,  i.  237-8,  260, 
ii.  402-3,  412,  429- 

Ramsay  (Dean)  on  Bleak  House  and  Jo, 
ii.  142. 

Ramsgate,   entertainments  at,  i.  438 
note. 

Raven,  death  of  Dickens's  first,  i.  156- 

8  ;  of  second,  i.  438. 
Raymond  (George),  ii.  104. 
Reade  (Charles),  Hard  Cash  contributed 

by,  to  All  the  Year  Round,  ii.  286. 
Readings,  gratuitous,  ii.  155-6  note, 
private,  in  Scheffer's  atelier,  ii.  212  ; 
in  Lincoln's-inn-fields,  i.  398,  407- 
8. 

public,  Dickens's  first  thoughts  of, 

i.  407,  486,  ii.  155 ;  argument 
against  paid,  ii.  155,  251  ;  idea 
revived,  ii.  246 ;  opinions  as  to, 
asked  and  given,  ii.  247  note ;  dis- 
advantages of,  ii.  247 ;  proposal 
from  Mr.  Beale  respecting,  ii.  252  ; 
first  rough  notes,  ii.  253-4  note ; 
various  managers  employed  by 
Dickens,  ii.  270  ;  hard  work  in- 
volved, ii.  271,  312,  439-40  ;  study 
given  to,  ii.  321. 

first  series,  ii.  270-81  ;  subjects  of, 

ii.  278-9. 

second  series,  ii.  292-306 ;  what  it 
comprised,  ii.  295  ;  new  subjects 
for,  ii.  296. 


Readings  given  by  Dickens  : 

third  series,  ii.  307-25 ;  Messrs. 
Chappell's  connection  with,  ii.  312- 
16. 

American,  ii.  393-435  ;  result  of,  ii. 
415. 

Australian,  contemplated,  ii.  303  note 
(but  see  305) ;  Bulwer's  opinion  of, 
ii.  304  note. 

Provincial  tour,  ii.  271,  295. 

last  series,  ii.  437-50  (and  see  430 
note). 

Readings  (alphabetical  list  of)  : 
Aberdeen,  ii.  278. 

Albany  (U.S.),  ii.  430;  receipts  at, 
ii.  434. 

Baltimore  (U.S.),  ii.  417,  423;  re- 
ceipts at,  ii.  434. 
Belfast,  ii.  275. 

Berwick-on-Tweed,  ii.  295,  299,  300. 

Birmingham,  ii,  154,  295,  316. 

Boston  (U.S.),  ii.  425,  433 ;  receipts 
at,  ii.  434. 

Bradford,  ii.  155  note. 

Brighton,  ii.  295,  298. 

Brooklyn  (New  York),  ii.  418;  re- 
ceipts at,  ii.  434. 

Buffalo  (U.S.),  ii.  426;  receipts  at, 
ii.  434. 

Bury,  ii.  279  note. 

Bury  St.  Edmunds,  ii.  295. 

Cambridge,  ii.  320. 

Canterbury,  ii.  295,  299. 

Carlisle,  ii.  295. 

Cheltenham,  ii,  295. 

Chester,  ii,  295,  317. 

Clifton,  ii.  444, 

Colchester,  ii,  295, 

Coventry,  ii.  1 56  note. 

Dover,  ii.  295,  299. 

Dublin,  ii.  272-4,  320, 

Dundee,  ii.  278. 

Edinburgh,  ii.  277,  301,  443  note. 
Exeter,  ii.  271. 

Glasgow,  ii.  278,  301,  443  note. 
Harrogate,  ii.  275. 
HariJord  (U.S.),  ii.  434. 
Hastings,  ii.  295. 


552 


Index, 


Readings  given  by  Dickens  : 
Hull,  ii.  277. 

Ipswich,  ii.  279  note,  295. 
Lancaster,  ii.  295. 
Leeds,  ii.  277. 

Liverpool,  ii.  272,  302,  315.  3 1 7- 
London,  ii.  271,  295,  296,  303,  313, 
442,  503- 

Manchester,  ii.  276,  295,  302,  313, 
315,  318. 

New  Bedford  (U.S.),  ii.  43 1  ;  re- 
ceipts at,  ii.  434. 

Newcastle,  ii.  295,  299,  319. 

Newhaven  (U.S.),  ii.  424;  receipts 
at,  ii.  434. 

New  York,  ii.  418,  434;  receipts  at, 
ii.  434. 

Norwich,  ii.  279  note,  295. 

Paris,  ii.  295,  305. 

Perth,  ii.  278. 

Philadelphia,  ii.  417  ;  receipts  at, 

ii.  434. 
Plymouth,  ii.  295. 

Portland  (U.S.),  ii.  433  ;  receipts  at, 

ib.,  434. 
Preston,  ii.  295. 

Providence  (U.S.),  ii.  424;  receipts 
at,  ii.  434. 

Rochester  (U.S.),  ii.  426;  receipts  at, 
ii.  427,  434. 

Sheffield,  ii.  277. 

Springfield  (U.S.),  ii.  434. 

Syracuse  (U.S.),  ii.  427  ;  receipts  at, 
ib.,  434. 

Torquay,  ii.  295,  302,  444. 

Washington  (U.S.),  ii.  419,  421  note, 
422  ;  receipts  at,  ii.  434. 

Worcester  (U.S.),  ii.  434. 

York,  ii.  276,  446. 
Reeves  (Sims),  ii.  104. 
Reformers,  administrative,  ii.  159  note. 
Regnier  (M.)  of  the  Frangais,  i.  520, 

ii.  65,  198,  199  note,  205,  2CD9. 
Rehearsals,  troubles  at,  ii.  5,  21  note. 
Religion,  what  is  the  true,  i.  388. 
Reporters'  gallery,  Dickens  enters  the, 

i.  57  ;  ceases  connexion  with,  i.  72. 
Reporter's  life,  Dickens's  own  expe- 


rience of  a,  i.  60-1  (and  see  i, 
473)- 

Revolution  at  Geneva,  i.  495-99  ;  traces 
left  by,  i.  498  ;  abettors  of,  ib. 

Rhine,  Dickens  on  the,  i.  443-4 ;  travel- 
ling Englishmen,  i.  444. 

Richard  Doubleclick^  Story  of^  it  221. 

Richardson  (Sir  John),  i.  420  note,  iL 
494. 

Richardson's  show,  a  religious,  ii.  305-6. 

Richmond  (U.S.),  levees  at,  i.  251. 

Rifle-shooting,  Lord  Vernon's  passion 
for,  i.  476-7 ;  at  Lausanne,  i.  460-1  ; 
at  Geneva,  i.  496-7. 

Rising  Generation  (Leech's),  Dickens 
on,  ii.  54-7. 

Ristori  (Madame)  in  Medea,  ii.  205-6. 

Roberts  (David),  ii.  87,  169. 

Robertson  (Peter),  i.  169,  172,  378-9, 
ii.  103 ;  sketch  of,  i.  169. 

Robertson  (T.  W.),  ii.  502. 

Robinson  Crusoe^  Dickens's  opinion  of, 
ii.  204  note  (and  see  i.  176  note). 

Roche  (Louis),  employed  by  Dickens 
as  his  courier  in  Italy,  i.  357  ;  re- 
engaged, i.  443 ;  resources  of,  i. 
397,  404-5,  422-3,  466,  509,  511; 
Count  d'Orsay  and,  i.  431  note  ;  ill- 
ness of,  ii.  59  ;  death,  i.  466  notCc 

Rochester,  early  impressions  of,  L  8, 
198  (and  see  ii.  511) ;  Watts's  Charity, 
ii.  221  note  (see  264). 

Rochester-bridge  (old),  ii.  264. 

Rochester  Castle,  adventure  at,  i.  297. 

Rochester  Cathedral,  brass  tablet  in,  to 
Dickens's  memory,  ii.  221  note. 

Rochester  (U.S.),  alarming  incident  at, 
ii.  426-7. 

Rockingham-castle,  Dickens's  visit  to, 

ii.  107-9  ;  private  theatricals  at,  ii. 

108-9,  167. 
Rocky  Mountain  Sneezer,  a,  ii.  410. 
Rogers  (Samuel),  i.  167,  191,  ii.  100, 

1 12  note  ;  sudden  illness  of,  ii.  97  ;-his 

waistcoats,  ii.  98. 
Rome,  Dickens's  first  impressions  of, 

i.  414;  Dickens  again  at,  ii.  169-72; 

a  'scattering'  party  at  Opera,  ii.  169- 


lnaex» 


553 


70  ;  marionetti,  ii.  1 70 ;  malaria,  iL 
171. 

Rosemont  (Lausanne),  taken  by  Dickens, 

i.  445  ;  view  of,  i.  448  (see  473)  ; 
Dickens's  neighbours,  i.  450-1,  464 ; 
Dombey  ht^xi,  i.  457;  the  landlord 
of,  i.  459-60  note. 

Rothamsted,  Rev.  Mr.  Lawes's  club  at, 

ii.  285. 

Royal  Academy  dinner,  Dickens's  last 
public  words  spoken  at,  ii.  507. 

*  Royalties,'  Dickens  on  payment  by,  ii. 
472. 

Roy  lance  (Mrs.),  the  original  of  Mrs. 

Pipchin  in  Dombey,  i.  28,  36. 
Ruskin  (Mr.)  on  Hard  Times,  ii.  145-6. 
Russell  (Lord  J.),  i.  457,  471  ;  a  friend 

of  letters,  ii.  4,  21 ;  on  Dickens's 

letters,  ii.  465  ;  dinner  with,  ii.  109  ; 

Dickens's  tribute  to,   il  480,  and 

note. 

Ryland  (Arthur),  letter  of  Dickens  to, 
ii.  152  note, 

Sala  (G.  a.),  Dickens's  opinion  of,  ii. 

82  note ;  tribute  by,  to  Dickens's 

memory,  ii.  491. 
Salisbury  Plain,  superiority  of,  to  an 

American  prairie,  i.  279  ;  a  ride  over, 

ii-  93- 

Samson  (M.),  i.  520,  ii.  99. 
Sand  (Georges),  ii.  206-7. 
Sandeau  (Jules),  ii.  209. 
Sandusky  (U.S.),  discomforts  of  inn  at, 
i.  283-4. 

Sardinians,  Dickens's  liking  for,  ii.  174, 
Satirist,   editor  of,   hissed  from  the 

Covent-garden  stage,  i.  318. 
Saturday  Review  on   the   realities  of 

Dickens's  characters,  i.  108. 
Scene-painting  at  Tavistock-house,  ii. 

230. 

Scheffer  (Ary),  ii.  197 ;  his  portrait 
of  Dickens,  ii.  213-5  5  reading  of 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth  in  atelier  of,  ii. 
214. 

Scheffer  (Henri),  ii.  215. 


Schools,  public,  Dickens  on,  IL  280. 

Scotland,  readings  in,  ii.  277-8. 

Scott  (Sir  W. ),  boyish  recollections  of, 

i.  4,  II  ;  real  people  in  his  novels,  ii. 
121,  126;  incident  in  his  life,  ii.  339. 

Scott  monument  at  Edinburgh,  ii.  20. 
Scribe  (M.),  dinner  to,  ii.  99;  social 
intercourse  of  Dickens  with,  i.  520, 

ii.  203  ;  author- anxieties  of,  ii.  204  ; 
a  fine  actor  lost  in,  ii.  206. 

Scribe  (Madame),  ii.  205. 
Sea-bathing  and  authorship,  i.  301. 
Seaside  holidays,  Dickens's,  ii.  46-72, 
179-94. 

Sebastopol,  reception  in  France  of  sup. 

posed  fall  of,  ii.  186. 
Serenades  at  Hartford  and  Newhaven, 

(U.S.),  i.  221-2  ;  at  Cincinnati,  i. 

271. 

Serle  (Mr.),  i.  322. 
Servants,  Swiss,  excellence  of,  i.  460. 
Seven  Dials,  ballad  literature  of,  i.154. 
Seymour  (Mr. )  and  the  Pickwick  Papers, 

i.  67,  69  note  ;  death  of,  i.  71. 
Shaftesbury  (Lord)  and  ragged  schools, 

i.  192,  323,  ii.  1 16-7. 
Shakespeare  Society,  the,  i.  122  (see 

354)- 

Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson,  ii.  35  ; 

on  the  actor's  calling,  ii.  248  note. 
Shakespeare's  house,  purchase  of,  ii, 

21. 

Sheffield,  reading  at,  ii.  277. 
Shell  (Richard  Lalor),  i.  320. 
Shepherd's-bush,  home  for  fallen  women 

at,  ii.  113. 
Sheridans  (the),  ii.  98  (seei.  512). 
Ship  news  on  the  Atlantic,  i.  203, 
Short-hand,  difficulties  of,  i.  54. 
Shows,  Saturday-night,  i.  32. 
Siddons  (Mrs.),  genius  of,  ii.  102-3. 
Sierra  Nevada,  strange  encounter  on  the, 

ii.  390-1. 

Sikes  and  Nancy  reading,  proposed,  ii. 
441-2  ;  at  Clifton,  ii.  444  ;  Macready 
on  the,  ib.  ;  at  York,  ii.  446,  and 
note  ;  Dickens's  pulse  after,  ii.  504-5. 

Simplon,  passing  the,  i.  406. 


554 


Index. 


'Six'  (Bachelor),  ii.  196. 

Sketches  by  Boz,  first  collected  and  pub- 
lished, i.  66,  70  (see  525,  526)  ;  cha- 
racterized, i.  71. 

Slavery  in  America,  i.  231,  250,  274-6, 
356  ;  a  slave  burnt  alive,  i.  275  ;  the 
ghost  of  slavery,  ii.  418. 

Slaves,  runaway,  i.  276. 

Sleeplessness,  Dickens's  remedy  for,  ii. 
288. 

Sleighs  in  New  York,  ii.  402. 
*  Slopping  round,'  ii.  427. 
*Smallness  of  the  world,'  i.  59,  69, 
263. 

Small-pox,  Backwoods  doctor's  remedy 
for,  ii.  311  note. 

Smith  (Albert),  Battle  of  Life  drama- 
tized by,  i.  515. 

Smith  (Arthur),  ii.  253,  277  ;  first  series 
of  Dickens's  readings  under  his  man- 
agement, ii.  254  (see  298  note) ; 
first  portion  of  second  series  planned 
by,  ii.  295  ;  serious  illness  of,  ii.  296 ; 
death,  ii.  297  ;  touching  incident  at 
funeral,  ib.  note. 

Smith  (Bobus),  i.  417. 

Smith  (O.),  acting  of,  i.  1 14,  350. 

Smith  (Porter),  ii.  104. 

Smith  (Southwood),  i.  320,  359. 

Smith  (Sydney),  i.  220,  359  ;  on  Nicho- 
las Nickleby,  i.  iio-ii,  1 15 note;  on 
Martin  Chuzzlewit,  i.  314,  335  ;  death 
of,  i.  421. 

Smithson  (Mr.),  i.  119,  158;  death  of, 
i.  348. 

Smoking  party,  a  feminine,  i.  491-2. 
Smollett  (Tobias),  a  recollection  of,*  i. 

83  ;  real  people  in  his  novels,  ii.  121 

(see  227). 

Snuff-shop  readings  of  Dombey,  i.  524. 
Solitary    confinement,    effects  of,  i. 

244-5,  452. 
Somebody' s  Luggage,  iu  519  ;  the  Waiter 

in,  ii.  362. 
Sortes  Shandyanse,  i.  457. 
Sparks  (Jared),  i.  209. 
Speculators,  American,  ii.  398,  399,424. 
Spiritual  tyranny,  i.  450  note. 


Spittoons  in  America,  i.  239. 

Springfield  (U.wS.),  reading  at,  ii.  434. 

Squib  Annual,  the,  i.  67. 

St.  Bernard,  Great,  proposed  trip  to,  i. 
477  j  ascent  of  the  mountain,  i. 
479-81  ;  the  convent,  i.  479 ;  scene 
at  the  top,  i.  480;  bodies  found  in 
the  snow,  ib.  ;  the  convent  a  tavern 
in  all  but  sign,  i.  481  ;  Dickons's 
fancy  of  writing  a  book  about,  ii,  243. 

St.  George  (Madame),  i.  408. 

St.  Giles's,  Dickens's  early  attraction  of 
repulsion  to,  i.  17  ;  original  of  Mr. 
Venus  found  in,  ii.  365. 

St.  Gothard,  dangers  of  the,  i.  424-5. 

St.  James's  Hall,  Dickens's  final  read- 
ing at,  i.  503-6  (see  449-50). 

St.  Leger,  Dickens's  prophecy  at  the, 
ii.  237. 

St.  Louis  (U.S.),  levee  at,  i.  273 ; 
slavery  at,  i.  274 ;  a  pretty  scene, 
i.  276-78  ;  duelling  in,  i.  280. 

Stafford  (Augustus),  ii.  109. 

Stage-coach,  queer  American,  i.  256-7. 

Stage,  training  for  the,  i.  437  ;  Shake- 
speare's dislike  of  the  stage,  ii.  248 
note. 

Stanfield  (Clarkson),  i.  119,  353,  360, 
396,  407,  434  note,  ii.  87-8,  495  ; 
sketches  in  Cornwall  by,  i.  312; 
his  illustrations  to  Battle  of  Life,  i, 
505 ;  price  realized  at  the  Dickens 
sale  for  the  Lighthouse  scenes,  ii.  159 
note  (and  see  ii.  229,  230,  284) ;  at 
work,  ii.  230  ;  death  of,  ii.  322, 

Stanfield  Hall,  Dickens  at,  ii.  94. 

Stanley  of  Alderley  (Mr.),  i.  119. 

Stanley  (Dr.  A.  P.),  Dean  of  West- 
minster, compliance  with  general  wish, 
ii'  513;  letter  and  sermon,  ib. 

Stanton  (Secretary),  curious  story  told 
by,  ii.  419-20  (and  see  485). 

Staplehurst  accident,  ii.  311,  366;  effect 
on  Dickens,  ii.  317-8,  366-7  (see  447, 
503). 

Staples  (J.  v.),  letter  from  Dickens  to, 

i.  346  note. 
Statesmen,  leading  Anerican,  i.  247. 


Index. 


555 


State  Trials,  story  from  the,  ii.  377. 
Stealings,  Carlyle's  argument  against,  i. 
236. 

Steamers,  perils  of,  i.  230,  232-4,  273 

(and  see  ii  165-6). 
Stevenage,  visit  to  the  hermit  near,  ii. 

286. 

Stevens  (Mr.),  *  mare '  of  Rochester,  ii. 
259. 

Stirling  (Mr.),  a  theatrical  adapter,  i. 
114. 

Stone  (Frank),  at  Boulogne,  ii.  183 ; 

his  sketch  of  Sydney  Dickens,  ii.  3 

note  ;  fancy  sketch  of,  ii.  14 ;  death 

of,  ii.  293  note. 
Stone  (Marcus),  designs  supplied  by,  to 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  ii.  364  note. 
Strangford  (Lord),  ii.  98. 
Streets,  crowded,  Dickens's  craving  for, 

i.  384,  482,  484-5,  489,  493. 
Strange  Gentleman,  a  farce  written  by 

Dickens,  i.  72  (see  525). 
Stuart  (Lord  Dudley),  ii.  102. 
Sue  (Eugene),  i.  520. 
Sumner  (Charles),  i.  209,  ii.  419,  423. 
Sunday,  a  French,  i.  510,  ii.  iii  note. 
Sunday  under  Three  Heads,  i.  98  note 

(see  525). 
Swinburne  (Algernon),  ii.  64. 
Switzerland,   splendid  scenery  of,  i. 

423-4 ;  villages,  i.  425  ;  Dickens's 

resolve  to  write  new  book  in,  i.  442  ; 

early  impressions,  i.  446-7 ;  climate, 

i.  459  note ;  the  people  of,  i.  459-60, 
469,  ii.  162 ;  mule-travelling,  i.  465, 

ii.  162  ;  Protestant  and  Catholic  can- 
tons, i.  470 ;  Dickens's  last  days  in, 

i.  506-9;  pleasures  of  autumn,  i.  507; 
revisited,  ii.  162. 

Syme  (Mr,),  opinion  of,  as  to  Dickens's 

lameness,  ii.  445-6. 
Syracuse  (U.S.),  reading  at,  ii.  427. 

Tagart  (Edward),  i.  325,  378,  472, 

ii.  100. 

Taine  (M.),  on  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  i. 
338 ;  criticisms  on  Dickens,  i.  354-5, 
ii.  23,  329-33  (and  see  i.  463  note) ; 


a  hint  for,  ii.  58  ;  on  Hard  Times, 
ii.  146  note  ;  Fielding  criticized  by, 
ii.  345. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  ii.  518;  titles  sug- 
gested for,  ii.  350,  373 ;  first  germ 
of  Carton,  ii.  373  (and  see  354)  j 
origin  of,  ii.  350  ;  characterised,  ii. 
354-5. 

Tales  of  Miletus  (Bulwer's),  Dickens  on, 
ii.  86-7. 

Talfourd  (Judge),  i.  117,  118,  160,351, 
494,  ii.  100  (and  see  486) ;  Dickens's 
affection  for,  ii.  63. 

Tatter  (Hunt's),  sayings  from,  ii.  123 
note. 

Tauchnitz  (Baron),  letter  from,  ii.  152 
note ;  intercourse  with  Dickens,  ii. 
451  note  (and  see  215  note). 

Tavistock-house,  sketch  of,  ii.  150; 
children's  theatricals  at,  ii.  156,  229  ; 
a  scene  outside,  ii.  229-30 ;  Stanfield 
scenes  at,  ii.  229,  284 ;  sale  of,  ii. 
294 ;  startling  message  from  servant, 

ii-  371. 
Taylor  (Tom),  ii.  102. 
Taylor  (the  Ladies),  i.  477. 
Telbin  (William),  ii.  87 ;  at  work,  ii. 

230. 

Temperance  agitation,  Dickens  on  the, 
ii.  50-1. 

Temperature,  sudden  changes  of,  in 

America,  i.  246  (see  ii.  408). 
Temple  (Hon.  Mr.),  i.  418. 
Tennent  (Sir  Emerson),  ii.  104,  165  ; 

death  and  funeral  of,  ii.  446. 
Tenniel  (John),  ii.  90,  99. 
Tennyson  (Alfred),  ii.  117;  Dickens's 

allegiance  to,  i.  102,  299,  352  note 

ii.  102. 

Ternan  (Ellen  Lawless),  ii.  522. 
Tete  Noire  Pass,  i.  467  ;  accident  in,  i 
467-8. 

Thackeray  (W.  M.)  i.  118,  320,  416, 
ii.  100,  117,  156;  offers  to  illustrate 
Pickwick,  i.  71-2  (see  ii.  307) ;  on 
Maclise's  portrait  of  Dickens,  i.  117 
note  ;  on  the  Carol,  i.  345  ;  his 
fondness  for  Mrs.  Steerforth,  ii.  132  ; 


556 


Index. 


dinner  to,  H.  l6o;  at  Boulogne,  ii.  183 
note  ;  in  Paris,  ii.  198  ;  tribute  to, 
by  Dickens,  ii.  279  (see  453) ;  death 
of,  ii.  307-8  ;  estrangement  between 
him  and  Dickens,  ii.  307  note. 
Thanet  (Isle  of)  races,  Dickens  at,  i. 
298. 

The9,tre  Fran9ais  (Paris),  conventionali- 
ties of  the,  ii.  198-9. 

Theatres,  Italian,  i.  412  ;  French,  i. 
520. 

Theatrical  Fund  dinner,  Dickens's  speech 
at,  i.  443,  ii.  114-15  (and  see  ii. 
279). 

Theatricals,   private,  at  Montreal,  i. 

293-4 ;  at  Rockingham,  ii.  108-9  ;  at 
Tavistock  House,  ii.  156-9  (and  see 

229). 

Theede  (Fred),  a  schoolfellow  of 
Dickens,  ii.  488  note. 

Thomas  (Owen  P.),  recollections  of 
Dickens  at  school,  i.  43-47. 

Thompson  (Mr.  T.  J.),  ii.  104. 

Thompson  (Sir  Henry),  consulted  by 
Dickens,  ii.  323 ;  a  reading  of 
Dickens's  stopped  by,  ii.  444 ;  opinion 
as  to  Dickens's  lameness,  ii.  323,  445 
(see  446,  447). 

Thornton  (Mr.),  ii.  421. 

Ticknor  (George),  i.  209,  212. 

Ticknor  &  Fields  (Messrs.),  commission 
received  by,  on  the  American  read- 
ings, ii.  440. 

Timber  Doodle  (Dickens's  dog),  i.  299, 
301  ;  troubles  of,  i.  378  note ;  death 
of,  ii.  211  note. 

Times  (the),  on  Dickens's  death,  ii.  512 
note. 

Tindal  (Chief  Justice),  on  the  editor  of 

the  Satirist,  i.  318. 
Tintoretto,  Dickens  on  the  works  of,  i. 

402,  ii.  173-4. 
Titian's    Assumption,    effect    of,  on 

Dickens,  i.  402. 
Tobin    (Daniel),    a    schoolfellow  of 

Dickens,  i.   43  (see  ii.  488  note) ; 

assists  Dickens  as  amanuensis,  but 

finally  discarded,  i.  45  (see  50,  153). 


Toole  (J.  L.),  encouragement  given  to 
in  early  life,  by  Dickens,  ii.  150. 

Topham  (F.  W.),  il  90,  99, 

Topping  (Groom),  i.  147,  156-7,  174, 
196,  293,  331. 

Toronto,  toryism  of,  i.  292. 

Torquay,  readings  at,  ii.  295,  302, 
444. 

Torrens  (Mrs.),  ii.  104  (see  i.  295). 
Tour  in  Italy  (Simond's),  i.  364  note. 
Townshead  (Chauncy  Hare),  i.  189,  ii. 

293  ;  death  and  bequest  of,  ii.  441. 
Townshend  (parson),  ii.  259. 
Tracey  (Lieut.),  i.  189,  297. 
Tramps,  ways  of,  ii.  260  note,  289. 
Tremont  House  (Boston,  U.  S. ),  Dickens 

at,  i.  206. 
Trossachs,  Dickens  in  the,  i.  175-6. 
True  Sun,  Dickens  reporting  for,  i.  57. 
Turk  (Dickens's  dog),  ii.  493. 
Turin,  Dickens  at,  ii.  174-5. 
Turner  (J.  M.  W.)^  at  the  Chuzzlewit 

dinner,  i.  360. 
Tuscany,  wayside  memorials  in,  i.  416 

note. 

Twickenham,  cottage  at,  occupied  by 
Dickens,  i.  118-9;  visitors  at,  ib.  ; 
childish  enjoyments,  i.  120  note. 

Twiss  (Horace),  ii.  99. 

Tyler  (President),  i.  247. 

Tylney  Hall  (Hood's),  i.  472. 

Tynemouth,  scene  at,  ii.  319, 


Uncommercial    Traveller^  Dickens's, 

ii.  287-91. 
Uncommercial  Traveller  Upside  Down, 

contemplated,  ii.  303. 
Underclift  (Isle  of  Wight),  Dickens's 

first  impressions  of,  ii.  63 ;  depressing 

effect  of  climate,  ii.  66-8. 
Unitarianism  adopted  by  Dickens  for  a 

short  time,  i.  324. 
Upholsterer,  story  of  an,  i.  125. 
Up  the  R/mie  (Hood's),  Dickens  on, 

i.  121. 

Utica  (U.  S.),  hotel  at,  ii.  429. 


Tndex. 


557 


Vauxhall,  the  Duke  of  Wellington 

and  party  at,  ii.  lOO. 
Venice,  Dickens's  first  impressions  of, 

i-   399-400  J  revisited,   ii.    1 72-4 ; 

habits  of  gondoliers,  ii.  172  ;  theatre, 

ii.  173. 
Verdeil  (M.),  i.  451-2. 
Vernet  (Horace),  Edwin  Landseer  on, 

ii.  213  note. 
Vernon  (Lord),  i.  496 ;  eccentricities 

of,  i.  476-7. 
Vesuvius,  Mount,  ascent  of,  ii.  167. 
Viardot  (Madame)  in  Orphee,  ii.  206 

note. 

Village  Coquettes,  story  and  songs  for, 
written  by  Dickens,  i.  72  (see  75  and 
525)- 

Vote,  value  of,  in  America,  ii.  418. 

Wales  (Prince  of),  and  Dickens,  ii. 
485. 

Wainewright  (the  murderer),  recognized 
by  Macready  in  Newgate,  i.  121  ; 
made  the  subject  of  a  tale  in  the  Netv 
York  Ledger,  ii.  291 ;  portrait  of  a 
girl  by,  i.  522  note  (and  see  ii.  99, 
373)- 

Wales,  North,  tour  in,  i.  121. 

Walker  (Judge),  party  given  by,  i.  271. 

Walsh  (Mr.),  a  schoolfellow  of  Dickens, 

ii.  488-9  note. 
Walton  (Mr.),  i.  412  note. 
Ward  (Professor)  on  Dickens,  ii.  349 

note. 

Ward  (Mr.  E.  M.)  and  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art,  ii.  88  ;  his  Royal 
Family  in  the  Temple,  ii.  212. 

Warehousemen  and  Clerks'  Schools, 
Dickens  presiding  at  anniversary  of, 
ii.  279. 

Washington  (U.S.),  hotel  extortion  at, 

i.  244 ;  climate,  i.  246  ;  Congress 
and  Senate,  i.  247  ;  a  comical  dog  at 
reading,  ii.  422  ;  other  readings  at, 

ii.  419,  421  note. 

Wassail-bowl  presented  to  Dickens  at 
Edinburgh,  ii.  252. 


Waterloo,  Battle  of,  at  Vauxhall,  ii.  100. 

Watson,  Mr.  (of  Rockingham),  i.  450, 
473>  517,  ii.  107  ;  death  of,  ii.  151. 

Watson  (Mrs.),  i.  473  ;  her  sketch  of 
Rosemont,  i.  448. 

Watson  (Sir  Thomas),  note  by,  of 
Dickens's  illness  in  April,  1869,  ii. 
448-50  ;  readings  stopped  by,  ii.  449 
(see  503  note)  ;  guarded  sanction 
given  to  additional  readings,  ib.  (and 
see  455)  ;  Dickens's  letter  to,  ii.  450 
note. 

Watts's  Charity  at  Rochester,  ii.  221 

note  (see  264). 
Webster  (Daniel),  i.  247  ;  on  Dickens, 

i.  212. 

Webster  (Benjamin),  ii.  104,  200. 
Webster  murder  at  Cambridge  (U.S.), 

ii.  406-7. 

Well-boring  at  Gadshill,  ii.  260-I. 
Weller  (Sam)  a  pre-eminent  achievement 

in  literature,  i.  85. 
Wellington  (Duke  of),  fine  trait  of  i. 

472-3  ;  at  Derby,  ii.  88  ;  at  Vauxhall, 

ii.  100, 

Wellington  House  Academy  (Hamp- 
stead-road),  Dickens  a  day-scholar  at, 
i.  42-49 ;  described  in  Household 
Words,  i.  49-50  (see  43)  ;  Dickens's 
schoolfellows,  i.  43-51,  ii.  488-9 
note  ;  Beverley  painting  scenes,  i.  48  ; 
revisited  after  five-and- twenty  years, 

i.  43- 

Westminster  Abbey,  the  burial  in,  il 
512-14. 

Weyer  (M.  Van  de),  ii.  99,  105. 
Whig  jealousies,  i.  1 72-3  (and  see  i. 
471). 

Whitechapel  workhouse,  incident  at, 

ii.  161. 

White-conduit-house,  reminiscence  of, 
i.  376. 

Whitefriars,  a  small  revolution  in,  i. 
499. 

White  (Rev.  James),  at  Paris,  ii.  197  ; 
character  of,  ii.  62  (and  see  64, 
65). 

White  (Mrs.  James),  ii.  62,  65. 


558 


Index. 


White  (Grant)  on  the  character  of  Car- 
ton in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities^  ii. 
354- 

Whitehead  (Charles),  i,  67. 
Whitworth  (Mr.),  ii.  104. 
Wieland  the  clown,  death  of,  ii.  231 
note. 

Wig  experiences,  ii.  ii. 

Wigton   (Cumberland)    described  by 

Dickens,  ii.  235. 
Wilkie  (Sir  David),  on  the  genius  of 

Dickens,  i.  117  ;  death  of,  168. 
Wilks  (Egerton),  i.  92,  ii.  104. 
Willis  (N.  P.),  fanciful  description  of 

Dickens  by,  i.  66  note. 
Wills  (W.  H.),  ii.  293,  474 ;  appointed 

assistant  editor  oi  Household  Words, 

ii.  80  (see  524). 
Wilson  (Professor),  L  169;  sketch  of, 

i  .169-70  ;  speeches  by,  i.  379. 
Wilson  (Sir  John),  i.  200,  298. 
Wilson  (Mr.  Grant),  ii.  466  note. 
Wilson  (Mr.)  the  hair-dresser,  fancy 

sketch  of,  II-I2. 
Wilton  (Marie)  as  Pippo  in  the  Maid 

and  Magpie^  ii.  280  note. 
Winter  (Prof.  Gilbert),  i.  125  note. 
Women,  defective  legislation  respecting, 


i.  471  note;  home  for  fallen,  ii.  113 

(and  see  ii.  379). 
Worcester  (U.S.),  reading  at,  ii.  434. 
Wordsv/orth,  memorable  saying  of,  iu 

387. 

Worms,  the  city  of^  i.  444. 

Yarmouth,  first  seen  by  Dickens,  ii. 
93-4. 

Yates  (Edmund),  ii.  293 ;  tales  by,  in 
All  the  Year  Round,  ii,  286 ;  Dickens's 
interest  in,  ii.  475. 

Yates  (Mr.),  i.  432;  acting  of,  i.  114, 
350- 

York,  readings  at,  ii.  276,  446. 
Yorkshire,  materials  gathered  in,  for 

Nickleby,  i.  112. 
Young  (Julian),  ii.  64. 
Young  Gentlemen  and  Young  Couples, 

sketches  written    by  Dickens  for 

Chapman  &  Hall,  i.  97  note  (see 

526,  527). 

Zoological  Gardens,  feeding  the  ser- 
pents at,  ii.  232-3. 

Zouaves,  Dickens's  opinion  of  the,  ii. 
210. 


THE  END. 


PKINTED  BY  WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  LIMITED,  LONDON  AND  BECCLES. 


